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

Playn ye, myn eyes, accompany my hart
For, by your fault, Loe! here is death at hand.
Ye brought him first into this bytter band,
And of his harme as yet ye felt no part;
But now ye shall: Loe! here begyns your smart,
Wet shall ye be—ye shall yt not withstand—
With weeping teares that shall make dymm your sight,
And mistie clowdes shall hang still in your light.
Blame but your selves that kyndyld have this brand,
Withe such desire to straine that past your might.
But synce by yow the hart hathe cawght his harme,
His flamed heate shall sometyme make ye warme.