By Sir Thomas Wyatt

Whoso list to hunt? I know where is an hind!

But as for me, alas! I may no more,

The vain travail hath wearied me so sore;

I am of them that furthest come 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,

Since 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 Cæsar’s I am,

And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.”