Nota bene despite their great achievement in poetry neither of them was a

Nota bene despite their great achievement in poetry

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by elegance, ease, by some classic, formal charm that sometimes results in loss of ordinary vitality.(Nota bene: despite their great achievement in poetry, neither of them was a professional. Aristocrats had no profession, since having one was out of class, and had to be left for the servants.They were diplomats, courtiers who wrote poetry in the intervals, often as part of the demonstration of expected courtly skills.)Their poems were first published posthumously by the printer, Tottel in his Miscellany in 1557. The 96 poems by Wyatt and the 40 ones by Surrey are given titles, putting all of them in the category of love poems, perhaps to suppress, during the reign of Catholic Mary Tudor, the politicalovertones present in not one of them. (The anthology has another 40 poems by Nicholas Grimald and 95 by ’uncertain authors’ as well.)Things to do alone- Compare Wyatt’s and Surrey’s adaptation of the same text, Petrarch’s Rime 140.First, here is the prose translation of the Italian original by Marguerite Waller:’Love, who lives and reigns in my thought and keeps his principal seat in my heart, sometimes comes forth armed into my forehead, there lodges himself (or is lodged) and there sets his banner. She who teaches us to love and endure, and wishes that reason, shame and reverence rein in great desire and kindled hope (or, who wishes that great desire and kindled hope would rein in reason, shame and reverence) at our boldness is angry within herself. Wherefore Love flees terrified to my heart, abandoning his every enterprise (also device, motto), and weeps and trembles; there he hidesand no more appears outside. What can I do, my lord being afraid (also fearing my lord), except stay with him until the last hour? For a good end he makes who dies loving well.’WyattThe longe love, that in my thought doeth harbarAndi n myn hert doeth kepe his residenceInto my face preseth with bold pretence,And therein campeth, spreding his baner.She that me lerneth to love and suffre7
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And will that my trust, and lustes negligenceBe rayned by reason, shame and reverenceWith his hardiness taketh displeasure.Wherewithall, unto the hertes forrest he fleith,Leving his enterprise with payne and cryAnd there him hideth and not appereth.What may I do when my maister fereth,But, in the felde, with him to lyve and dye?For goode is the liff, ending faithfully.SurreyLove that liveth and reigneth in my thought,That built its seat within my captive breast,Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought,Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.But she that taught me love, and suffer pain,My doubtful hope and eke my hot desireWith shamefast cloak to shadow and refrain,Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire.And coward love then to the heart apaceTaketh his flight, where he doth lurk and plainHis purpose lost, and dare not show his face.For my lord’s guilt thus faultless bide I pain.Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove:Sweet is his death that takes his end by love.
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