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

Lament my losse, my labor, and my payne,
All ye that here mye wofull playnte and crye,
Yf ever man might ons your herte constrayne
To pytie wordes of right, yt shulde bee I;
That sins the time that youthe yn me ded rayne
My plesaunte yeris to bondage ded aplye,

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Whiche as yt was I pourpose to declare,
Wherebye my frindes hereafter maye be ware.

And if perchaunce some redres list to muse
What menith me so playnlye for to wright
My good entente the fawte of yt shall skuse,
Whiche meane nothing but trulye t'endyght
The crafte and care, the greef and long abuse
Of lovers lawe and eke her puisshaunte might,
Wiche though that menn oft tymes bye paynis doth kno,
Lyttle theye wot wiche wayes the gylis doth growe.

Yet well ye know yt will renue my smarte
Thus to reherse the paynes that I have past;
My hand doth shake, my penn skant dothe his parte,
My boddye quakes, my wyttis begynne to waste;
Twixt heate and colde in fere I fele my herte
Panting for paine, and thus as all agaste
I do remayne skant wotting what I wryte:
Perdon me then rudelye tho I indyte.

And patientelye, o Redre, I the praye
Take in good parte this worke as yt ys mente,
And greve the not with ought that I shall saye,
Sins with good will this boke abrode ys sent
To tell men how in youthe I ded assaye
What love ded mene and nowe I yt repente:
That musing me my frindes might well be ware,
And kepe them fre from all soche payne and care.