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

In mornyng wyse syns daylye I Increas,
Thus shuld I cloke the cause of all my greffe;
So pensyve mynd with tong to hold his pease,
My reasone sayethe there can be no relyeffe:
Wherffor geve ere, I vmble you requyre,
The affectes to know that thus dothe mak me mone.
The cause ys great of all my dolffull chere,
Ffor those that were, and now be dead and gonne.

What thoughe to Dethe Desert be now ther call,
As by ther ffautis yt dothe apere ryght playne,
Of fforce I must lament that suche a ffall
Shuld lyght on those so welthily dyd Raygne;
Thoughe some perchaunce wyll saye of crewell hart,
A tratores dethe why shuld we thus bemone?
But I, Alas, set this offence apart,
Must nedis bewayle the dethe of some begonn.

As ffor them all I do not thus lament,
But as of Ryght my Reason dothe me bynd;
But as the most doth all ther dethes repent,
Evyn so do I by fforce of mornyng mynd.
Some say: ‘Rochefford, hadyst thou benne not so prowde,

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Ffor thy gryt wytte eche man wold the bemone;
Syns as yt ys so, many crye alowde:
Yt ys great losse that thow art dead and gonne.’

A! Norrys, Norres, my tearys begyne to Rune
To thynk what hap dyd the so led or gyd,
Wherby thou hast bothe the and thyn vndone.
That ys bewaylyd in court of euery syde;
In place also wher thou hast neuer bene
Both man and chyld doth petusly the mone.
They say: ‘Alas, thou art ffar ouer seene
By there offences to be thus ded and gonne.’

A! Weston, Weston, that pleasant was and yonge;
In actyve thynges who myght with the compayre?
All wordis exsept that thou dydyst speake with tonge;
So well estemyd with eche wher thou dydyst fare.
And we that now in court dothe led our lyffe
Most part in mynd doth the lament and mone;
But that thy ffaultis we daylye here so Ryffe
All we shuld weppe that thou art dead and gone.

Brewton, ffarwell, as one that lest I knewe.
Great was thy love with dyuers as I here;
But common voyce dothe not so sore the Rewe,
As other twayne that dothe beffore appere.
But yet no dobt but thy frendes thee lament
And other her ther petus crye and mone.
So dothe eche hart ffor the lykwyse Relent,
That thou gevyst cause thus to be ded and gonne.

A! Mark what mone shuld I ffor the mak more?
Syns that thy dethe thou hast deseruyd best,
Save only that myn eye ys fforsyd sore
With petus playnt to mone the with the Rest.
A tym thou haddyst aboue thy poore degree,
The ffall wherof thy frendis may well bemone.
A Rottyn twygge apon so hyghe a tree
Hathe slepyd thy hold and thou art dead and goonn.

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And thus ffarwell eche one in hartye wyse!
The Axe ys home, your hedys be in the stret;
The trykklyngge tearys dothe ffall so from my yes,
I skarse may wryt, my paper ys so wet.
But what can helpe when dethe hath playd his part,
Thoughe naturs cours wyll thus lament and mone?
Leve sobes therffor, and euery crestyn hart
Pray ffor the sowlis of thos be dead and goone.