How the Lover Perisheth in his Delight as the Fly in the Fire by Thomas Wyatt

Some fowls there be that have so perfect sight,
Against the sun their eyes for to defend ;
And some, because the light doth them offend,
Never appear but in the dark or night :
Other rejoice to see the fire so bright,
And ween to play in it, as they pretend,
But find contrary of it, that they intend.
Alas ! of that sort may I be by right ;
For to withstand her look I am not able ;
Yet can I not hide me in no dark place ;
So followeth me remembrance of that face,
That with my teary eyen, swoln, and unstable,
    My destiny to behold her doth me lead ;
    And yet I know I run into the glead.

From: http://www.luminarium.org/renlit/somefowls.htm

Date: 1557 (published)

By: Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)

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