TO HIS LADY, CRUEL OVER HER
YIELDING LOVER.


S UCH is the course that nature's kind hath
        wrought
   That snakes have time to cast away their stings :
Against chain'd prisoners what need defence be sought ?
The fierce lion will hurt no yielden things :
Why shoul such spite be nursed then by thought ?
Sith all these powers are prest under thy wings ;
And eke thou seest, and reason thee hath taught,
What mischief malice many ways it brings :
Consider eke, that spite availeth nought.
Therefore this song thy faul to thee it sings :
Displease thee not, for saying thus my thought,
Nor hate thou him from whom no hate forth springs :
    For furies that in hell be execrable,
    For that they hate, are made most miserable.



Source:
Yeowell, James, Ed. The Poetical Works of Sir Thomas Wyatt.
London: George Bell and Sons, 1904. 12.




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