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

Alle ye that knowe of care and heuynes,
My wofull fatte when ye haue hard,
Then judge the truthe in this my great distresse,
Yf any woo may be therto compared;
And marke my thought as I shall yt expresse,
For cause hit self doth nother mar nor make,
But euyn as the pacyent doth hit take.

I thyncke whoo soo doth behold my payne
Sees the Soule of Sorow grounded in gryff,
The rotte of woo portred in payne,
The cloude of care dispayred of Relyff,
The lothed lyff thorow dartyd with dysdayne,
Sorow ys I and I evyn the same,
Ine that all men do call me by that name.

When I doo cast my careful lok doun Right
Vpon the ground, as thoo that I wolld fall,
Theryn me thynckes ys gravyn with my sight
The pyctour of my Sorowfull thoughtes all;
Ye, and the wormes that appere agaynst the nyght,
As me Semes, they thynck that deth doth mych yll
To leve me thus to lyve agaynst my wyll.

Where I do vse to lye Right secretly,
Apon a banck ouer a Ryuer clere,
Soo ofte I there be wayle my desteyne
That the water disdayneth hit to here,
And at my wepyng takes great envy,
Lest the teres that ffrome my nyes do rayne
Shuld cause the fysshe theryn to morne and playne.

Alone when I doo walke the woodes wandryng,
Vttryng my care with paynefull sighes and groans,
The birdes, which on the bowes syt syngyng,
To here my Cry then ses they all attons,
Hauyng great grudge at me and my wellyng,
By cause yt was so grevous shyrle and lowde,
That hit stonnyd their song thorow all the woode.