"Whoso List To Hunt" Sonnet by Sir Thomas Wyatt

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.

Dialogue Sonnet

First, do you mind if I record this as we speak? No,
of course not. Okay then, let’s salivate together.
Reaganite goo has spread itself all over this primary
season, don’t you agree? Well, one might say so,

but it’s early in the century, and the campaign will drag
on for months and months if not years and years. We
will all come to regret our first thoughts, our early
prognostications. Progressive enervation, eh?

Yep, right here in Enervation Nation. Don’t you find
all of this . . . well, shall we say a little Mozartean?
To be sure. But left hands barely hear what the right
hands are doing. Robbing St. Peter to pay St. Paul, eh?

Just so. Thanks for coming in today. One last thought
for our listeners? Just one: Beware the blowflies of fame.




Halvard Johnson