 | Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt |  |
XLVIII
[What nedeth these thretning wordes and wasted wynde?]
What nedeth these thretning wordes and wasted wynde?All this cannot make me restore my pray.
To robbe your good, I wis, is not my mynde,
Nor causeles your faire hand did I display.
Let love be judge, or els whome next we meit,
That may boeth here what you and I can say.
She toke from me an hert and I a glove from her:
Let vs se nowe, if th'one be wourth th'othre.
| Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt | |