 | Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt |  |
CXCIII
[So vnwarely was never no man cawght]
So vnwarely was never no man cawght
With stedefast loke apon a goodly face,
As I of late; for sodenly me thowght
My hart was torne owte of hys place.
With stedefast loke apon a goodly face,
As I of late; for sodenly me thowght
My hart was torne owte of hys place.
Thorow myn Iye the strock frome hyrs dyd slyde,
Dyrectly downe vnto my hert ytt ranne;
In helpe wherof the blood therto dyd glyde,
And left my face both pale and wanne.
Dyrectly downe vnto my hert ytt ranne;
In helpe wherof the blood therto dyd glyde,
And left my face both pale and wanne.
203
Then was I leke a manne for woo amasyd,
Or leke the byrde that flyeth in to the fyer;
For whyll that I vpon her beaulte gasyd
The more I burnt in my desyre.
Or leke the byrde that flyeth in to the fyer;
For whyll that I vpon her beaulte gasyd
The more I burnt in my desyre.
Anon the blowd stert in my face agayne,
Enflamde with hete that yt had att my hart,
And browght therwith thorowt in euery vayne
A quakyng hete with plesaunt smert.
Enflamde with hete that yt had att my hart,
And browght therwith thorowt in euery vayne
A quakyng hete with plesaunt smert.
Then was I leke the strawe whan that the flame
Ys drevyn therin by force and rage off wynd;
I can nott tell, alas, what I shall blame,
Nor what to seke, nor what to fynd.
Ys drevyn therin by force and rage off wynd;
I can nott tell, alas, what I shall blame,
Nor what to seke, nor what to fynd.
But wele I wote the greffe holdes me so sore
In hete and cold betwyxt hope and drede,
That but her helpe to helth doth me restore
Thys restles lyff I may nott lede.
In hete and cold betwyxt hope and drede,
That but her helpe to helth doth me restore
Thys restles lyff I may nott lede.
| Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt | |