HOW THE LOVER PERISHETH IN HIS DE-

LIGHT AS THE FLY IN THE FIRE.1

S OME fowls there be that have so perfect
        sight,
   Against the sun their eyes for to defend ;
And some, because the light doth them offend,
Never appear but in the dark or night :
Other rejoice to see the fire so bright,
And ween to play in it, as they pretend,
But find contrary of it, that they intend.
Alas ! of that sort may I be by right ;
For to withstand her look I am not able ;
Yet can I not hide me in no dark place ;
So followeth me remembrance of that face,
That with my teary eyen, swoln, and unstable,
    My destiny to behold her doth me lead ;
    And yet I know I run into the glead.


1  Petrarch. Son. 12. 2  Hot coal or wood.


Source:
Yeowell, James, Ed. The Poetical Works of Sir Thomas Wyatt.
London: George Bell and Sons, 1904. 8.



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