Mine own John Poynz

Sir Thomas Wyatt

Mine own John Poynz, since ye delight to know

The cause why that homeward I me draw,

And flee the press of courts, whereso they go,

Rather than to live thrall under the awe

Of lordly looks, wrappèd within my cloak,

To will and lust learning to set a law:

It is not for because I scorn or mock

The power of them, to whom fortune hath lent

Charge over us, of right, to strike the stroke.

But true it is that I have always meant

Less to esteem them than the common sort,

Of outward things that judge in their intent

Without regard what doth inward resort.

I grant sometime that of glory the fire

Doth twyche my heart. Me list not to report

Blame by honour, and honour to desire.

But how may I this honour now attain,

That cannot dye the colour black a liar?

My Poynz, I cannot from me tune to feign,

To cloak the truth for praise without desert

Of them that list all vice for to retain.

I cannot honour them that sets their part

With Venus and Bacchus all their life long;

Nor hold my peace of them although I smart.

I cannot crouch nor kneel to do so great a wrong,

To worship them, like god on earth alone,

That are as wolves these sely lambs among.

I cannot with my word complain and moan,

And suffer nought, nor smart without complaint,

Nor turn the word that from my mouth is gone.

I cannot speak and look like a saint,

Use willes for wit, and make deceit a pleasure,

And call craft counsel, for profit still to paint.

I cannot wrest the law to fill the coffer

With innocent blood to feed myself fat,

And do most hurt where most help I offer.

I am not he that can allow the state

Of him Caesar, and damn Cato to die,

That with his death did scape out of the gate

From Caesar's hands (if Livy do not lie)

And would not live where liberty was lost;

So did his heart the common weal apply.

I am not he such eloquence to boast

To make the crow singing as the swan;

Nor call the liond of cowardes beasts the most

That cannot take a mouse as the cat can;

And he that dieth for hunger of the gold

Call him Alexander; and say that Pan

Passeth Apollo in music many fold;

Praise Sir Thopias for a noble tale,

And scorn the story that the Knight told;

Praise him for counsel that is drunk of ale;

Grin when he laugheth that beareth all the sway,

Frown when he frowneth and groan when is pale;

On others' lust to hang both night and day:

None of these points would ever frame in me.

My wit is nought—I cannot learn the way.

And much the less of things that greater be,

That asken help of colours of device

To join the mean with each extremity,

With the nearest virtue to cloak alway the vice;

And as to purpose, likewise it shall fall

To press the virtue that it may not rise;

As drunkenness good fellowship to call;

The friendly foe with his double face

Say he is gentle and courteous therewithal;

And say that favel hath a goodly grace

In eloquence; and cruelty to name

Zeal of justice and change in time and place;

And he that suffer'th offence without blame

Call him pitiful; and him true and plain

That raileth reckless to every man's shame.

Say he is rude that cannot lie and feign;

The lecher a lover; and tyranny

To be the right of a prince's reign.

I cannot, I; no, no, it will not be!

This is the cause that I could never yet

Hang on their sleeves that way, as thou mayst see,

A chip of chance more than a pound of wit.

This maketh me at home to hunt and to hawk,

And in foul weather at my book to sit;

In frost and snow then with my bow to stalk;

No man doth mark whereso I ride or go:

In lusty leas at liberty I walk.

And of these news I feel nor weal nor woe,

Save that a clog doth hang yet at my heel.

No force for that, for it is ordered so,

That I may leap both hedge and dyke full well.

I am not now in France to judge the wine,

With saffry sauce the delicates to feel;

Nor yet in Spain, where one must him incline

Rather than to be, outwardly to seem:

I meddle not with wits that be so fine.

Nor Flanders' cheer letteth not my sight to deem

Of black and white; nor taketh my wit away

With beastliness; they beasts do so esteem.

Nor I am not where Christ is given in prey

For money, poison, and treason at Rome—

A common practice used night and day:

But here I am in Kent and Christendom

Among the Muses where I read and rhyme;

Where if thou list, my Poinz, for to come,

Thou shalt be judge how I do spend my time.

523

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’T was merry Christmas when he came,
Our little boy beneath the sod;
And brighter burned the Christmas flame,
And merrier sped the Christmas game,
Because within the house there lay
A shape as tiny as a fay—
The Christmas gift of God!
In wreaths and garlands on the walls
The holly hung its ruby balls,
The mistletoe its pearls;
And a Christmas tree’s fantastic fruits
Woke laughter like a choir of flutes
From happy boys and girls.
For the mirth, which else had swelled as shrill
As a school let loose to its errant will,