122 POEMS OF SIR HENRY WOTTON, ETC. Who hath not erred, he doth not live; F life be time that here is lent, So it doth prove a killing crime If doing nought be like to death, Of him that doth, chameleon-wise, Not, here he lives; but, here he dies. IV. AN EPITAPH ON A MAN FOR DOING NOTHING.2 HERE lies the man was born and cried, 1 Chetham MS. 8012, p. 76. 2 Chetham MS. 8012, p. 158; also in Philipot's edit. of Camden's "Remains," 1657, p. 399. (By Sir Thomas Wyatt or Viscount Rochford. Before 1542.) Y lute, awake! perform the last waste, And end that I have now begun; And when this song is sung and past, My lute, be still! for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none; As lead to grave in marble stone; My song may pierce her heart as soon: Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan? No, no, my lute, for I have done. 1 In Tottel's "Songs and Sonnets," 1557, and in Nott's "Wyatt," p. 20, as Sir Thomas Wyatt's. Ascribed to Rochford in "Nugæ Antiquæ," vol. ii. p. 400, edit. Park. The rocks do not so cruelly Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain: May chance thee lie, withered and old, Plaining in vain unto the moon. Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon: Now cease, my lute! This is the last Now is this And ended is that we begun : |