Fountain of sorrows, centre of mad ire,
    Rank error’s school and fane of heresy,
    Once Rome, now Babylon, the false and free,
    Whom fondly we lament and long desire. 
    O furnace of deceits, O prison dire,
    Where good roots die and the ill-weed grows a tree
    Hell upon earth, great marvel will it be
    If Christ reject thee not in endless fire. 
    Founded in humble poverty and chaste,
    Against thy founders lift’st thou now thy horn,
    Impudent harlot!  Is thy hope then placed
    In thine adult’ries and thy wealth ill-born? 
    Since comes no Constantine his own to claim,
    The vext world must endure, or end its shame.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CVIII.

Quanto piu desiose l’ ali spando.

FAR FROM HIS FRIENDS, HE FLIES TO THEM IN THOUGHT.

      The more my own fond wishes would impel
    My steps to you, sweet company of friends! 
    Fortune with their free course the more contends,
    And elsewhere bids me roam, by snare and spell
    The heart, sent forth by me though it rebel,
    Is still with you where that fair vale extends,
    In whose green windings most our sea ascends,
    From which but yesterday I wept farewell. 
    It took the right-hand way, the left I tried,
    I dragg’d by force in slavery to remain,
    It left at liberty with Love its guide;
    But patience is great comfort amid pain: 
    Long habits mutually form’d declare
    That our communion must be brief and rare.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CIX.

Amor che nel pensier mio vive e regna.

THE COURAGE AND TIMIDITY OF LOVE.

      The long Love that in my thought I harbour,
    And in my heart doth keep his residence,
    Into my face presseth with bold pretence,
    And there campeth displaying his banner. 
    She that me learns to love and to suffer,
    And wills that my trust, and lust’s negligence
    Be rein’d by reason, shame, and reverence,
    With his hardiness takes displeasure. 
    Wherewith Love to the heart’s forest he fleeth,
    Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,
    And there him hideth, and not appeareth. 
    What may I do, when my master feareth,
    But in the field with him to live and die? 
    For good is the life, ending faithfully.

    WYATT.

      Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought,
    That built its seat within my captive breast;
    Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought,
    Oft in my face he doth his banner rest. 
    She, that me taught to love, and suffer pain;
    My doubtful hope, and eke my hot desire
    With shamefaced cloak to shadow and restrain,
    Her smiling grace converteth