Of the Same

WYATT resteth here, that quick could never rest:

Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain;

And virtue sank the deeper in his breast:

Such profit he by envy could obtain.

A head, where wisdom mysteries did frame;

Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain,

As on a stithe, where that some work of fame

Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain’s gain.

A visage stern, and mild; where both did grow

Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice:

Amid great storms, whom grace assured so,

To live upright, and smile at fortune’s choice.

A hand, that taught what might be said in rhyme;

That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit.

A mark, the which (unperfected for time)

Some may approach, but never none shall hit.

A tongue that serv’d in foreign realms his king;

Whose courteous talk to virtue did inflame

Each noble heart; a worthy guide to bring

Our English youth by travail unto fame.

An eye, whose judgment none effect could blind,

Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile;

Whose piercing look did represent a mind

With virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile.

A heart, where dread was never so imprest

To hide the thought that might the truth advance;

In neither fortune loft, nor yet represt,

To swell in wealth, or yield unto mischance.

A valiant corpse, where force and beauty met:

Happy, alas! too happy, but for foes,

Lived, and ran the race that nature set;

Of manhood’s shape, where she the mould did lose.

But to the heavens that simple soul is fled,

Which left, with such as covet Christ to know,

Witness of faith, that never shall be dead;

Sent for our health, but not received so.

Thus for our guilt this jewel have we lost;

The earth his bones, the heavens possess his ghost.