[Tim Murphy]

Whoso list to hount, I know where is an hinde,
But as for me, helas, I may no more:
The vayne travaill hath weried me so sore
I ame of theim that farthest commeth behind;
Yet may I by no means my weried minde
Draw from the Diere. But as she fleeth afore
Faynting I folowe. I leve off therefore,
Sins in a nett I seeke to holde the wynde.
Who list her hount, I put him owte of dowbte
As well as I may spend his time in vain
For graven in Diamonds in letters plain
There is written her faire neck round abowte:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I ame
and wylde for to hold, though I seme tame.

Here is our Ur-sonnet, written after Thomas Wyatt returned from Italy and before H VIII chopped off his head. It is an imitation of Petrarch, and I think it's one of our greatest sonnets, despite its roughness. Works on four levels for me: The courtier's pursuit of the idealized woman. The hunter's pursuit of the deer. The sinner's pursuit of his Christ. The poet's pursuit of the poem. "Sins in a nett I seeke to holde the winde" better describes the art to which I've given my life than any line I ever read. I've typed this from memory, so forgive me any errors in orthography, punctuation, etc.