A lovely poem you’ve never read.

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind

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.

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 Caesar’s I am;

And wylde for to hold, though I seem tame.

–Sir Thomas Wyatt, 1503-1542

from the Petrarch

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