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

Alas! my Dere, the word thow spakest
Hath smotte the Stroke within my brest
Of Cruell Deth, sens thow forsackyst
Me and my faithfull ment behest.
Too long I Shewed that word to here,
That doth renew my great onrest
And mornyng Chere.

And mornyng Chere, which by dispayre
For wante of hoppe ys myche increst,
So that now past both hoppe and fere,
Of my judgement I know the best
Ys Lyf a while in paynefull woo;
And how soon Deth wyll pers my brest,
I doo not know.

I do not know when, nor how sone,
The stroke thow smast within my hart
Wyll blede me to a dedely sowne,
But well I know, tho thow revert,
Till yt do blede and I stark dede,
I shall renew with dayly smart
This Lyffe I Lede.

This Lyffe I Lede and Lyve to Long,
Agayn my wyll in ters to melt,
Sens none ther ys may ryght my wrong;

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But I must fele that I haue felt
The Stroke of Deth, and cannot Dy,
Gaylyd within the strongist belt
Of Crueltie.

Of Crueltie and cruell Deth,
Forst to abyde Extremytie,
And yet to lyve, thoo I want breth,
To Show further how cruelly
My hope ys turned to murnyng chere,
And ye the cause thereof onely,
Alas, my dere.