Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
- Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder. Thought to be translated from Petrarch's 190th (157th) sonnet (see below) but adapted to refer to Anne Boleyn, Wyatt's supposed mistress before she entered the orbit of Henry VIII.
Una candida cerva sopra l'erba
Verde m'apparve, con duo corna d'oro,
Fra due riviere, a l'ombra d'un alloro,
Levando'l sole, a la stagione acerba.
Era sua vista sí dolce superba,
Ch'i'lasciai, per seguirla, ogni lavoro;
Come l'avaro, che'n cercar tesoro
Con diletto l'affanno disacerba.
"Nessun mi tocchi," al bel collo dintorno
Scritto avea di diamenti e di topazi;
"Libera farmi al mio Cesare parve."
Ed era'l sol già vòlto al mezzo giorno,
Gli occhi miei stanchi di mirar, non sazi;
Quand'io caddi ne l'acqua, ed ella sparve.
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