Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt Edited by Kenneth Muir and Patricia Thomson |
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 | Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt |  |
CXLIV
[I knowe not where my heuy syghys to hyd]
I knowe not where my heuy syghys to hyd
My sorrowffull hart ys so vexed with paygne
I wander fforthe as one without a gyd,
That sekythe to ffynd a thyng partyd in twaine,
And so fforthe ronne that skant can torne Agayne;
Thus tyme I passe and wast ffull petuslye,
Ffor Dethe yt ys owte off thy syght to bee.
My sorrowffull hart ys so vexed with paygne
I wander fforthe as one without a gyd,
That sekythe to ffynd a thyng partyd in twaine,
And so fforthe ronne that skant can torne Agayne;
Thus tyme I passe and wast ffull petuslye,
Ffor Dethe yt ys owte off thy syght to bee.
I skantlye know ffrome whome commys all my greff,
But that I wast as one dothe in seknes,
And cannot tell whiche way commes my mescheff;
Ffor All I tast to me ys betyrnes,
And of my helthe I have no sykernes
Nor shall not have tyll that I do the see:
Yt ys my Dethe out of thy syght to be.
But that I wast as one dothe in seknes,
And cannot tell whiche way commes my mescheff;
Ffor All I tast to me ys betyrnes,
And of my helthe I have no sykernes
Nor shall not have tyll that I do the see:
Yt ys my Dethe out of thy syght to be.
I leve in yerthe as one that wold be dead,
And cannot dye: Alas! the more my payne.
Ffamyshed I am, and yet Alwayes am ffed:
Thus contrary all thyng dothe me constrayne
To laugh, to morne, to walke, to joye, to playne,
And shall do styll, ther ys no remedye,
Vntyll the tyme that in thy syght I be.
And cannot dye: Alas! the more my payne.
Ffamyshed I am, and yet Alwayes am ffed:
Thus contrary all thyng dothe me constrayne
To laugh, to morne, to walke, to joye, to playne,
And shall do styll, ther ys no remedye,
Vntyll the tyme that in thy syght I be.
Ther nys syknes but helth yt dothe desyer,
Nor povertye but Ryches lyke to haue,
Nor shypp in storme but stering douthe Requyer
Harbor to fynd, so that she may her saue;
And I, Alas, nought in thys world do craue
Save that thow lyst on hym to haue mercye,
Whose dethe yt ys out of thy syght to be.
Nor povertye but Ryches lyke to haue,
Nor shypp in storme but stering douthe Requyer
Harbor to fynd, so that she may her saue;
155
Save that thow lyst on hym to haue mercye,
Whose dethe yt ys out of thy syght to be.
| Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt | |