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A DISTINGUISHED courtier in the reign of Henry VIII., he was secretly attached to Anne Boleyn, whom he has commemorated in his verse. He was fortunate in escaping the suspicion and tyranny of Henry, and died while on a mission for him in France. His poetical pieces were few.

THE LOVER'S LUTE.
BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound

Of this or that as liketh me;
For lack of wit the Lute is bound

To give such tunes as pleaseth me;
Though my songs be somewhat strange,
And speak such words as touch my change,

Blame not my Lute !
My Lute, alas ! doth not offend,

Though that per force he must agree
To sound such tunes as I intend

To sing to them that heareth me;
Then though my songs be somewhat plain,
And toucheth some that use to feign,

Blame not my Lute !
My Lute and strings may not deny,

But as I strike they must obey ;
Break not them so wrongfully,

But wreak thyself some other way ;
And though the songs which I indite
Do quit thy change with rightful spite,

Blame not my Lute !
Spite asketh spite, and changing change,

And falsed faith must needs be known ;
The faults so great, the case so strange ;

Of right it must abroad be blown:
Then since that by thine own desert
My songs do tell how true thou art,

Blame not my Lute !
Blame but thyself that hast misdone,

And well deserved to have blame;
Change thou thy way, so evil begone,

And then my Lute shall sound that sume :

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The gravel ground, with sleeves tied on the helm

Of foaming horse, with swords and friendly hearts ; With cheer, as though one should another whelm,

Where we have fought, and chased oft with darts ; With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth,

In active games of nimbleness and strength, Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth,

Our tender limbs that yet shot up in length: The secret groves which oft we made resound,

Of pleasant plaint and of our ladies' praise, Recording oft what grace each one had found,

What hope of speed, what dread of long delays: The wild forest, the clothed holts with green,

With reins availed and swift ybreathed horse ; With cry of hounds and merry blasts between,

Where we did chase the fearful hart of force. The wide vales, eke, that harboured us each night,

Wherewith, alas, reviveth in my breast, The sweet accord such sleeps as yet delight,

The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest : The secret thoughts imparted with such trust,

The wanton talk, the divers change of play, The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just ;

Wherewith we passed the winter night away. And with this thought, the blood forsakes the face,

The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue, The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas,

Upsupped have, thus I my plaint renew : O place of bliss! renewer of my woes,

Give me accounts, where is my noble fere ; Whom in thy walls thou dost each night enclose;

To other leef, but unto me most dear : Echo, alas ! that doth my sorrow rue,

Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew,

In prison pine with bondage and restraint, And with remembrance of the greater grief To banish the less, I find my chief relief.

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Born 1520 Anne Askewe.

Burnt 1546 One of the victims of the persecuting Henry VIII., she was burnt to death at Smithfield 1546. The

was made and sung by her while a prisoner in Newgate.

LIKE as the armed Knighte,
Appointed to the fielde,
With this world wil I fight,
And faith shal be my shilde.
Faith is that weapon stronge,
Which wil not faile at nede;
My foes therefore amonge,
Therewith wil I procede.
As it is had in strengthe,
And forces of Christes waye,
It wil prevaile at lengthe,
Though all the Devils saye naye.
Faithe of the fathers olde
Obtained right witness,
Which makes me verye bolde
To fear no worldes distress.
I now rejoice in harte,
And hope bides me do so ;
For Christ wil take my part,
And ease me of my wo.
Thou sayst, Lord, whoso knocke,
To them wilt Thou attende ;
Undo, therefore, the locke,
And thy stronge power sende.
More enemies now I have
Than heeres upon my head;
Let them not me deprave,
But fight Thou in my steade
On Thee my care I cast,
For all their cruell spight;
I set not by their hast,
For Thou art my delight.
I am not she that list
My anker to let fall

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