"My love will follow you down every highway of your soul"

Further proof that I am not Sir Thomas Wyatt: When I versify a prose pony of Petrarch's Rime Sparce 190, I get:

A bright white doe with two golden horns
Appeared before me in a grassy glade
Between two rivers, in a laurel's shade,
As the sun rose on an unripe morn.

Her appearance was so sweet and forthright
I left off every task to follow her,
As misers in pursuit of the gold they prefer
Sweeten their exertions with delight.

"Touch me not," a beautiful collar stated,
The letters made of diamonds and topaz upon
Her neck: "It's Caesar's pleasure that I be free."

The sun fell past midday rapidly;
My watching eyes were tired, but not sated,
When I tripped into water, and she was gone.

In Wyatt's hands, the same poem becomes the masterpiece "Whoso list to hunt, I know where is a hind."

Combined with prior evidence, I think that proves things beyond any doubt.

---L.