Maybe it is time to share this again:

Sir Thomas Wyatt, what a man he must have been, over six foot tall in an age when most men where just over five foot, handsome, a brilliant scholar, a royal ambassador,a wonderful poet whose words speak to us across the five hundred years since he was alive… He died at the age of thirty-nine, and was interred in Sherborne Abbey which is only just over an hour from where we live… maybe I should go and visit him.

Sonnet 11

The long love that in my thought I harbour,
And in mine heart doth keep his residence,
Into my face presseth with bold pretence,
And therein campeth displaying his banner.
She that me learneth to love and to suffer,
And wills that my trust, and lust’s negligence
Be reined by reason, shame, and reverence,
With his hardiness takes displeasure.
Wherewith love to the heart’s forest he fleeth,
Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,
And there him hideth, and not appeareth.
What may I do, when my master feareth,
But in the field with him to live and die?
For good is the life, ending faithfully.

Thomas Wyatt

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