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

Grudge on who list, this ys my lott,
No thing to want if it ware not.
My yeris be yong even as ye see;
All thinges thereto doth well agre;
Yn feithe, in face, in eche degre,
No thing doth want as semith me,
If yt ware not.

Some men dothe saye that frindes be skace,
But I have founde as in this cace
A frinde wiche gyvith to no man place
But makis me happiest that euer was,
Yf yt ware not.

Groudge on who list, this is my lot,
No thing to want if yt ware not.
A hart I have besides all this
That hathe my herte and I have his;
If he dothe well yt is my blis
And when we mete no lak there is,
Yf yt ware not.

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Yf he can finde that can me please
A thinckes he dois his owne hertes ease,
And likewise I coulde well apease
The chefest cause of his misease
Yf yt ware not.

Groudge on who list, this is my lot,
No thing to want if yt ware not.
A master eke god hath me sente
To whom my will is hollye bente
To serue and love for that intente
That bothe we might be well contente,
Yf yt ware not.

And here an ende that dothe suffise
To speke few wordes among the wise;
Yet take this note before your eyes,
My mirthe shulde doble ons or twise,
Yf yt were not.

Groudge on who liste, this is my lot
No thing to want if it ware not.