Thomas Wyat.

Einer der ersten englischen Nachahmer des Petrarca. Sir Thomas Wyat ward im Jahre 1503 auf dem Schlosse Allington in Kent geboren, studirte in Cambridge und Oxford und ward dann von Heinrich VIII. in Staatsgeschäften verwandt und sehr begünstigt. Der Verdacht, in einem genaueren Verhältniss zu Anna Boleyn zu stehen, zog ihm jedoch die Ungnade seines Monarchen, Kerkerhaft und eine Untersuchung wegen verrätherischer Verbindungen zu. Er erhielt jedoch seine Freiheit und die Gunst des Königs wieder. Doch ging er nicht an den Hof zurück, sondern begab sich nach Allington, wo er in ländlicher Zurückgezogenheit den Musen sein Leben widmete und nur dann und wann den Hof besuchte. Der Auftrag, dem Gesandten Kaiser Karl's V. das Geleit von Falmouth nach London zu geben, zog ihm, da er während eines sehr heissen Tages nicht vom Pferde gekommen war, ein hitziges Fieber zu, an welchem er 1542 zu Sherborn starb. Sein poetischer Nachlass, gröstentheils aus Liedern und Balladen bestehend, erschien zuerst, zugleich mit den Gedichten seines Freundes Surrey (vgl. S. 4.) 1557 zu London, später wieder aufgelegt, London 1717 in 8 u. ö.

Petrarca war, wie bereits oben bemerkt wurde, W.'s Vorbild, das er zwar nicht erreichte, aber mit Glück nachahmte; seine gelungensten Leistungen finden sich in seinen Liedern und in seinen poetischen Episteln; sein bedeutendstes Verdienst bestand aber in seiner Behandlung der Sprache, die er förderte und veredelte.

The lover complaineth the unkindness And then may chaunce thee to repent of his love.

The time that thou hast lost and spent,

To cause thy lovers sighe and swone: My Lute, awake, perform the last

Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,
Labour that thou and I shall wast:

And wish and want as I have done.
And ende that I have now begunne,
And when this song is song and past,

Now cease, my lute, this is the last,
My lute be styll for I have done.

Labour that thou and I shall wast,

And ended is that we gon As to be heard where eare is none,

Now is this song both song and past.
As leade to grave in marble stone,

My lute be still for I have done.
My song may pearce her hart as soon!
Should we then sigh, or sing, or mone,
No, no, my lute, for I have done.
The rocks do not so cruelly,

The lover determineth to serve Repulse the waves continually,

faithfully. As she my suite and affection: So that I am past remedy,

Since Love will needs, that I shall love, Whereby my lute and I have done.

Of very force I must agree:

And since no chaunce may it remove, Proude of the spoyle that thou hast gotte,

In wealth and in adversitie,
Of simple hearts through Loves shot,

I shall alway myselfe apply
By whome unkind thou hast them wonne, To serve and suffer patiently.
Think not he hath his bow forgott,
Although my lute and I have done.

Though for good will I finde but hate,

And cruelly my life to wast,
Vengeance shall fall on thy disdaine And though that still a wretched state,
That makest but game of earnest payne, Should pyne my days unto the last:
Think not alone under the sunn,

Yet I profess it willingly
Unquit to cause thy lovers playne,

To serve and suffer patiently.
Although my lute and I have done,

For since my hart is bound to serve,
May chaunce thee lye withred and old, And I not ruler of myne owne,
In winter nights that are so cold,

Whatsoe befall, tyll that I sterve,
Playning in vaine unto the moon:

By proofe full well it shall be knowne, Thy wishes then dare not be told!

That I shall still myself apply Care then who list for I have done.

To serve and suffer patiently.

Yet though my griefe finde noe redress,
But still encrease before myne eyes,
Though my reward be cruelnesse,
With all the harme, happs can devyse,
Yet I profess it willingly
To serve and suffer patiently.

Yea though fortune her pleasant face,
Should shew, to set me up aloft,
And straight my wealth for to deface,

Should wrythe away, as she doth oft,
Yet would I still my self apply,
To serve and suffer patiently.

There is no griefe, no smert, no woe,
That yet I feel, or after shall,

That from this minde may make me goe,
And whatsoever me befall,
I do profess it willingly
| To serve and suffer patiently.

Surrey.

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey ward wahrscheinlich 1516 (nach Anderen 1512 oder 1518) zu Framlingham in Suffolk, geboren, brachte seine Jugend am königlichen Hofe zu Windsor zu, wo er ein enges Freundschaftsbündniss mit dem jungen Grafen von Richmond, einem natürlichen Sohne Heinrich's VIII. schloss. Sie besuchten dann gemeinschaftlich die Universität Oxford und machten darauf eine Reise durch Frankreich. Nach ihrer Rückkehr vermählte sich Richmond mit einer Schwester der Geliebten Surrey's, der von ihm gefeierten Geraldine (einer Gräfin Fitzgerald), starb aber bald nachher und Surrey trat nun eine Reise nach Italien an, auf welcher er alle zum Zweikampf gefordert, die seine Dame nicht für die erste Schönheit der Erde erklärten, und auch wirklich in einem Turnier zu Florenz den Sieg davon getragen haben soll. Trotz dem vermählte er sich nach seiner Rückkehr in das Vaterland mit einer Andern und zeichnete sich nun so als Krieger aus, dass er bereits 1544 das englische Heer als Feldmarschall auf dem Zuge nach Boulogne befehligte. Heinrich VIII. ward jedoch argwöhnisch gegen ihn, liess ihn verhaften, des Hochverrathes anklagen und trotz Surrey's männlicher und begeisterter Selbstvertheidigung am 21. Januar 1547 enthaupten.

Seine Gedichte (siehe vorige Seite.) sind selbstständige Nachahmungen Petrarca's, dessen Vorzüge er zu erreichen strebte, dessen Fehler er hingegen zu vermeiden wusste. Meist lyrische Poesien zeichạen sie sich durch Zartheit, Anmuth und Wärme aus. Zwar behandelt Surrey in denselben die Form mit grosser Freiheit, dagegen ist aber seine Sprache edel und geschmackvoll. Nicht ohne Glück versuchte er die Uebertragung einiger Stellen der Aeneis in englische ungereimte fünffüssige iambische Verse (blank verse).

hartes;

Prisoner in Windsor, he recounteth his The gravel grounde, wythe sleves tyde on the

helme pleasure there passed.

On foamyng horse, with swordes and frendly So cruell prison howe could betyde, alas! As proude Windsor: Where I in lust and joye, Wythe chere as though one should another Wyth a kynges sonne, my chyldysh yeres dyd

whelme passe,

Where we have fought, and chased oft wyth In greater feast, than Priam's sonnes of Troye:

dartes. Where eche swete place returnes a tast full sower: With silver droppes the meade yet spreade for " The large grene where we were wont to rove,

ruthe, Wyth eyes cast up into the Maydens tower, In active games of nimbleness and strength, And easy sighes, such as folkes draw in Love: Where we did strayne trayned with swarmes of The stately seates, the ladies brighte of hewe;

youthe The daunces short, long tales of greate delight Our tender limmes, that yet shot up in lengthe. Wyth woordes and lookes, that tygers could but the secrete groves which oft we made resounde,

Of pleasant playnte, and of our Ladies prayse, Where eche of us dyd pleade the others ryghte. Recordyng oft what grace eche one had founde, The palme play, where despoyled for the game, What hope of spede, what dreade of long delayes. With dazed eyes oft we by gleames of love, The wylde forrest, the clothed holtes with grene, Have myst the ball, and gote sighte of our dame With raynes availed and swiftly breathed horse; To bayte her eyes, whyche kept the leads above, Wyth cry of houndes and merry blastes betwene,

soone

Where we did chase the feareful harte of force. My ladies beuty passeth more,
The wyde vales eke, that harborde us eche The best of yours I dare well sayne,

nyghte,

Then doth the sunne the caundle - lyght,
Wherewyth, (alas) reviveth in my breste Or bryghtest day the darkest nyght.
The swete accorde, such slepes as yet delyt,
The pleasant dreames the quyet bed of rest; And thereto hath a troth as just
The secret thoughtes impa with such trust, As had Penelope the fayre;
The wanton talke, the dyvers chaunge of playe; For what she sayeth ye may it trust,
The friendship sworne, eche promise kept so fast, As it by wrytyng sealed were:
Wherewith we past the winter nyghte away.

And virtues hath she many moe,
And wyth thys thoughte, the bloud forsakes the Than I wyth pen have skill to showe.

face,
The teares berayne my chekes of deadly hewe, I could reherse, if that I would,
The whyche as

as sobbyng sighes, The whole effecte of Natures playnt,
(alas !)

When she had lost the perfecte mould,
Upsupped have, thus I my playnt renewe: The lyke to whome she could not paynte:
O place of blisse! renewer of my woes!

With wringeing hands, how she did cry,
Give me accompt where is my noble fere, And what she said, I know it, I.
Whom in thy walles thou doest eche nyghte

enclose,

I knowe she swore with rageing mynde, To other leefe, but unto me most dere:

Her kyngdome only set apart,
Eccho (alas !) that doth my sorrow rewe,

There was no losse by law of kynde,
Returns thereto a hollowe sounde of playnt; That could have gone so nere her hearte;
Thus I alone, where all my freedome grewe, And this was chiefely all her payne,
In pryson pyne, withe bondage and restraynt: She could not make the lyke agayne.
And with remembrance of the greater griefe,
To banish the lesse, I fynd my chief reliefe. Syth Nature thus gave her the prayse,

To be the chiefest worke she wroughte;

In fayth me thynke some better wayes,

On your behalfe myghte well be soughte,
Description of Spring

Then to compare (as you have done) wherein eche thinge renewes, save only the

To matche the caundle with the sunne. lover.

season

The soote

that bud and bloome forth

bringes, With grene hath cladde the hyll, and eke the Description of the restlesse state of a

Lover with sute to his Lady, to rue on vale;

his dieing hart. The nightingall with fethers new she singes; The turtle to her mate hath told her tale, The Sunne hath twyse brought forth his tender Somer is come, for every spray now springes;

grene,
The hart hath hung hys olde head on the pale; Twyse cladde the earth in lyvely lustinesse;
The bucke in brake his winter coate he flynges; Ones have the wyndes the trees dyspoled clene,
The fishes flete with newe repayred scale; And once agayne begynnes theyr cruelnesse,
The adder all her slough away she flynges; Synce I have hyd under my brest the harme,
The swift swallow pursueth the flyes smalle; That never shall recover healthfulnesse.
The busy bee her honey how she mynges; The wynters hurt recovers with the warme,
Winter is worne that was the floures bale. The parched grene restored is with shade:
And thus I see among these pleasant thynges What warmth, alas! may serve for to dysarme
Eche care decayes, and yet my sorrow sprynges. The frosen hart that myne in flame hath made ?

What colde agayne is able to restore
My fresh grene yeares, that wither thus and

fade?
A Praise of hys Love
wherein he reproves them that compare their

Alas! I see nothing hath hurt so sore ladies with his.

But Tyme, in tyme reduceth a returne:

In tyme my harme encreaseth more and more Give place ye lovers here before,

And seemes to have my cure allwayes in scorne; That spent your boastes and bragges in vain! Strange kindes of death, in lyfe that I doe trye

At hand to melt, farre off in flame to burne: The present heate of secret flame:
And lyke as tyme lyst to my cure applye, And when salt teares do bayne my breast,
So doth eche place my comfort cleane refuse. Where love his pleasent traynes hath sowen,
All things alive, that seeth the heavens with Her beauty hath the fruytes opprest,

eye,

Ere that the buddes were spronge and blowne. With cloke of night may cover, and excuse And when myne eyen dyd still pursue, Itself from travayle of the unrest,

The flying chase of theyre request; Save I, alas! against all others use,

Theyre greedy looks dyd oft renew, That then styrre up the tormentes of my breaste,! The hydden wounde within my breste. And curse eche sterre as causer of my fate. When every loke these cheekes might stayne, And when the sunne hath eke the darke opprest, From dedly pale to glowing red; And brought the day, it doth nothing abate By outward signes appeared playne, The travayles of myne endless smarte and' To her for helpe my hart was fled.

payne:

But all too late Love learneth me, For then as one that hath the light in hate, To blynd theyre eyes that else should see I wish for night more covertly to playne; My speckled chekes with Cupids hew. And me withdrawe from every haunted place, And now the covert brest I clame, Lest by my chere my chaunce appeare to playne: That worshipt Cupide secretely; And in my mynde I measure pace by pace, And nourished hys sacred flame, To seeke the place where I my self had lost, From whence no blairing sparkes do flye. That day that I was tangled in the lace, In semyng slacke, that knitteth ever most. But never get the travayll of my thought

The Lover excuseth himself of Of better state, could catche a cause to bost:

suspected change. For if I founde sometime that I have sought, Those sterres by whom I trusted of the port,

Though I regarded not My sayles do fall, and I advaunce right nought; The promise made by me, As ankred fast, my sprites do all resort

Or passed not to spot
To stand agazed, and sink in more and more

My faith and honestie;
The deadly harme which she doth take in sport. Yet were my fansie strange,
Lo! if I seek, how do I find my sore!

And wilful will to wite;
And if I flee, I cary with me styll

If I soughte now to change
The venomed shaft which doth hys force restore A falkon for a kite.
By hast of flight; and I may plaine my fill

All men might well dispraise
Unto my self, unless this carefull song

My wit and enterprise, Print in your hart some parcell of my tene.

If I esteemed a pese
For I, alas! in silence all too long

Above a pearle in price:
Of myne olde hurt yet feele the wound but Or judged the owle in sight

grene.

The sparhauke to excell; Rue on my lufe, or else your cruel wronge

Which flyeth but in the night
Shall well appeare, and by my death be sene.

As all men know righte well.
Or if I soughte to saile,
Into the brittle porte;

Where anker hold doth faile,
Description of the restless estate of a

To such as do resort;
Lover.

And leave the haven sure
When youth had led me halfe the race

Where blowes no blustring winde; Thad Cupides scourge had made me runne;

Nor ficklenesse in ure I looked back to meet the place,

So farforth as I finde. From whence my weary course begunne:

No, think me not so lighte, And then I saw howe my desyre,

Nor of so churlish kinde, Misguiding me had led the waye,

Though it lay in my mighte, Myne eyne too greedy of theyre hyre,

My boundage to unbinde: Had made me lose a better prey.

That I woulde leave the hinde For when in sighes I spent the day,

To hunt the ganders foe. And could not cloake my grief with game;

No, no, I have no minde The boyling smoke dyd still bewray,

To make exchanges soe;

Nor yet to change at all;
For thinke it may not be
That I shoulde seke to fall
From my felicitie.
Desirous for to win,
And loth for to forgoe,
Or new change to begin;
How may all this be soe?

The fire it cannot frese,
For it is not his kinde;
Nor true love cannot lese
The constancye of minde:
Yet as sone shall the fire,
Want heate to blase and burne,
As I, in such desire,
Have once a thought to turne.

V er e.

Edward Vere, siebenzehnter Graf von Oxford, ward 1534 geboren, zeichnete sich bereits in seiner Jugend durch glänzende Fähigkeiten aus, studirte in Cambridge, machte darauf grössere Reisen und erbte 1562 nach seines Vaters Tode dessen Titel und Besitzungen. Als Oberkammerherr von England war er einer der Richter der unglücklichen Maria Stuart. Er starb 1604. Sein Character wird von seinen Zeitgenossen eben nicht gerühmt; als Jüngling soll er ein grosser Modenarr und vorzüglich ein Nachahmer italienischer Sitten, weshalb man ihn spottweise the Mirrour of Tuscanismo nannte, als Mann dagegen ein vollendeter Höfling gewesen sein.

Seine meist lyrischen Gedichte sind nie in einer besonderen Ausgabe erschienen, sondern finden sich in gleichzeitigen Sammlungen verstreut. Sie sind voll Anmuth und Grazie, aber mitunter auch dunkel und gesucht, und geben ein treues Abbild des damals herrschenden Geschmacks.