Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt Edited by Kenneth Muir and Patricia Thomson |
21 |
13 | I. |
II. |
4 | III. |
IV. |
CIX. |
CX. |
CXI. |
CXII. |
CXIII. |
CXIV. |
CXV. |
CXVI. |
CXVII. |
CXVIII. |
CXIX. |
CXX. |
CXXI. |
CXXII. |
CXXIII. |
CXXIV. |
CXXV. |
CXXVI. |
CXXVII. |
CXXVIII. |
CXXIX. |
CXXX. |
CXXXI. |
CXXXII. |
CXXXIII. |
CXXXIV. |
CXXXV. |
CXXXVI. |
CXXXVII. |
CXXXVIII. |
CXXXIX. |
CXL. |
CXLI. |
CXLII. |
CXLIII. |
CXLIV. |
CXLV. |
CXLVI. |
CXLVII. |
CXLVIII. |
CXLIX. |
CL. |
CLI. |
CLII. |
CLIII. |
CLIV. |
CLV. |
CLVI. |
CLVII. |
CLVIII. |
CLIX. |
CLX. |
CLXI. |
CLXII. |
CLXIII. |
CLXIV. |
CLXV. |
CLXVI. |
CLXVII. |
CLXVIII. |
CLXIX. |
CLXX. |
CLXXI. |
CLXXII. |
CLXXIII. |
CLXXIV. |
CLXXV. |
CLXXVI. |
CLXXVII. |
2 | V. |
VI. |
2 | VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
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 | ||