Whoso list me to hunt, I seem a perfect hind.
but to continue, I say no more
your vain travail hath wearied me so sore
continue not, your farthest behind.
yet you consist, your wearied mind,
draw from this deer, but as I fleeth afore
fainting you follow, leave off therefore
you cannot catch the wind.
Who list me hunt, I put him out of doubt,
you will spend your time in vain.
For graven with diamonds in letters plain
there is written on my neck round about
"Noli me tangere, for Irving's I am,
and wild for him to hold, though I seem tame.
Ode to Sir Thomas Wyatt
Belle Solace Community Member 
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