Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt Edited by Kenneth Muir and Patricia Thomson |
| 21 |  |
| 13 | | I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| 1 | V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| 1 | XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| 1 | XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| 1 | LIII. |
| 1 | LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
| LVII. |
| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| 1 | LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. |
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
| LXXII. |
| 2 | LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| 1 | LXXXII. |
| LXXXIII. |
| LXXXIV. |
| LXXXV. |
| LXXXVI. |
| LXXXVII. |
| LXXXVIII. |
| LXXXIX. |
| XC. |
| XCI. |
| XCII. |
| XCIII. |
| XCIV. |
| XCV. |
| XCVI. |
| XCVII. |
| 3 | XCVIII. |
| XCIX. |
| C. |
| 1 | CI. | CI
|
| CII. |
| CIII. |
| CIV. |
 | II. |
| 4 | | III. |
| IV. |
| 2 | | V. |
| VI. |
| 2 | | VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
 | Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt |  |
CI
[What rage is this? What furour of what kynd?]
What rage is this? What furour of what kynd?
What powre, what plage, doth wery thus my mynd?
Within my bons to rancle is assind
What poyson, plesant swete?
What powre, what plage, doth wery thus my mynd?
Within my bons to rancle is assind
What poyson, plesant swete?
Lo, se myn iyes swell with contynuall terys;
The body still away sleples it weris;
My fode nothing my faintyng strenght reperis,
Nor doth my lyms sustayne.
The body still away sleples it weris;
My fode nothing my faintyng strenght reperis,
Nor doth my lyms sustayne.
In diepe wid wound the dedly strok doth torne
To curid skarre that neuer shalle retorne.
Go to, tryumphe, reioyse thy goodly torne,
Thi frend thow dost opresse.
To curid skarre that neuer shalle retorne.
Go to, tryumphe, reioyse thy goodly torne,
Thi frend thow dost opresse.
Opresse thou dost, and hast off hym no cure,
Nor yett my
plaint 
no pitie can procure,
Fiers tygre fell, hard rok withowt recure,
Cruell rebell to love!
Nor yett my
plaint no pitie can procure,
Fiers tygre fell, hard rok withowt recure,
Cruell rebell to love!
84
Ons may thou love, neuer belovffd agayne;
So love thou still and not thy love obttayne;
So wrathfull love with spites of just disdayne
May thret thy cruell hert.
So love thou still and not thy love obttayne;
So wrathfull love with spites of just disdayne
May thret thy cruell hert.
| Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt | |