Better still, for me at
least, is the life of the river and the shipyards, where, though Rye
is now two miles from the sea, ships are still built and the life of
the place and its heart are adventured and set upon the great waters.
So alluring indeed is this little town that one is always loath to
leave it, one continually excuses oneself from departure. One day I
delayed in order to see the famous poem in the old book in the town
archives which I already knew from Mr Lucas's book. It is certainly
of Henry VIII.'s time, and who could have written it but that unhappy
Sir Thomas Wyatt who loved Anne Boleyn--
What greater gryffe may hape
Trew lovers to anoye
Then absente for to sepratte them
From ther desiered joye?
What comforte reste them then
To ease them of ther smarte
But for to thincke and myndful bee
Of them they love in harte?
And sicke that they assured bee
Ehche toe another in harte
That nothinge shall them seperate
Untylle deathe doe them parte?
And thoughe the dystance of the place
Doe severe us in twayne,
Yet shall my harte thy harte imbrace
Tyll we doe meete agayne.
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