Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt :: :: University of Virginia Library

Synes loue ys suche that, as ye wott,
Cannot allways be wysely vsyd,
I say therfore then blame me nott,
Tho I therin haue ben abusyd;
Ffor as with cause I am accusyd.
Gyllty I graunt, suche was my lott;
And tho yt cannot be excusyd,
Yet let suche folye be forgott.

Ffor in my yeres of Rekles youthe
Me thought the power of loue so gret
That to her lawes I bound my treuthe
And to my wyll there was no lett.
Me lyst nomore so farr to fett
Suche frute, lo, as of loue ensewthe;
The gayn was small that was to gett,
And of the losse the lesse the reuthe.

And few there ys but fyrst or last
A tyme in loue ones shall they haue
And glad I am my tyme ys past,
Henceforthe my fredome to withsaue.

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Now in my hart there shall I grave
The groundyd grace that now I tast;
Thankyd be fortune that me gave
So fayre a gyfft, so sure and fast.

Now suche as haue me sene or thys,
Whan youthe in me sett forthe hys kynd,
And foly framd my thought amys,
The faute wherof now well I ffynd,
Loo, syns that so yt ys assynd
That vnto eche a tyme there ys,
Then blame the lott that led my mynd
Sometyme to lyue in loves blys.

But frome henceforth I do protest
By proffe of that that I haue past
Shall neuer ceace within my brest
The power of loue so late owt cast;
The knott therof ys knytt ffull fast,
And I therto so sure proffest,
Ffor euermore with me to last
The power wherin I am possest.