L IKE unto these unmeasurable mountains
  So is my painful life, the burden of ire ;
  For high be they, and high is my desire ;
And I of tears, and they be full of fountains :
Under craggy rocks they have barren plains ;
Hard thoughts in me my woful mind doth tire :
Small fruit and many leaves their tops do attire,
With small effect great trust in me remains :
The boisterous winds oft their high bounds do blast :
Hot sighs in me continually be shed :
Wild beasts in them, fierce love in me is fed ;
Unmovable am I, and they steadfast.
    Of singing birds they have the tune and note ;
    And I always plaints passing through my throat.

Yeowell, James, Ed. The Poetical Works of Sir Thomas Wyatt.
London: George Bell and Sons, 1904. 15.

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