Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt Edited by Kenneth Muir and Patricia Thomson |
| 21 |  |
| 13 |  | I. |
| II. |
| 4 | | III. |
| IV. |
| CIX. |
| CX. |
| CXI. |
| CXII. |
| CXIII. |
| CXIV. |
| CXV. |
| CXVI. |
| CXVII. |
| CXVIII. |
| CXIX. |
| CXX. |
| CXXI. |
| CXXII. |
| CXXIII. |
| CXXIV. |
| CXXV. |
| CXXVI. |
| CXXVII. |
| CXXVIII. |
| CXXIX. |
| CXXX. |
| CXXXI. |
| CXXXII. |
| CXXXIII. |
| CXXXIV. |
| CXXXV. |
| CXXXVI. |
| CXXXVII. |
| CXXXVIII. |
| CXXXIX. |
| CXL. |
| CXLI. |
| CXLII. |
| CXLIII. |
| CXLIV. |
| CXLV. |
| CXLVI. |
| CXLVII. |
| CXLVIII. |
| CXLIX. |
| CL. |
| CLI. |
| CLII. |
| CLIII. |
| CLIV. |
| CLV. |
| CLVI. |
| CLVII. |
| CLVIII. |
| CLIX. |
| CLX. |
| CLXI. |
| CLXII. |
| CLXIII. |
| CLXIV. | CLXIV
|
| CLXV. |
| CLXVI. |
| CLXVII. |
| CLXVIII. |
| CLXIX. |
| CLXX. |
| CLXXI. |
| CLXXII. |
| CLXXIII. |
| CLXXIV. |
| CLXXV. |
| CLXXVI. |
| CLXXVII. |
| 2 | | V. |
| VI. |
| 2 | | VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
 | Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt |  |
CLXIV
[Syethe yt ys so that I am thus refusyd]
Syethe yt ys so that I am thus refusyd,
And by no meanys I can yt Remedye,
Me thynckes of Right I ought to be excusyd,
Tho to my hart I set yt not to nye;
But now I see, Alas, tho I shuld dye,
Ffor want of truthe and ffaythffull stedfastnes
Of hym that hathe my hart onlye,
Yt wold not be but ffals nuffanglydnes.
And by no meanys I can yt Remedye,
Me thynckes of Right I ought to be excusyd,
Tho to my hart I set yt not to nye;
But now I see, Alas, tho I shuld dye,
Ffor want of truthe and ffaythffull stedfastnes
Of hym that hathe my hart onlye,
Yt wold not be but ffals nuffanglydnes.
176
I set my hart I thought not to withdrawe,
The proffe therof ys knowen to well, Alas!
But now I se that neuer erst I sawe
Wher I thought gold I fond but brytell glas.
Now yt ys this ye know, somthyng yt was
Not so promysed, the truthe ys so dobtles.
Who ys my fo who brynges me in thys cace?
I can none blame but ffals newfanglydnes.
The proffe therof ys knowen to well, Alas!
But now I se that neuer erst I sawe
Wher I thought gold I fond but brytell glas.
Now yt ys this ye know, somthyng yt was
Not so promysed, the truthe ys so dobtles.
Who ys my fo who brynges me in thys cace?
I can none blame but ffals newfanglydnes.
Yet Reasone wold that trewe love wer regardyd
Without ffayninge, wher ment ffaythfully,
And not with vnkyndnes ys to be rewardyd.
But this yt ys, Alas, suche hap had I,
I can no more but I shall me aplye
My woffull hart to bryng out of distres,
And withdraw my mynd so full of ffollye,
Sythe thus dothe Raygne this false newfanglydnes.
Without ffayninge, wher ment ffaythfully,
And not with vnkyndnes ys to be rewardyd.
But this yt ys, Alas, suche hap had I,
I can no more but I shall me aplye
My woffull hart to bryng out of distres,
And withdraw my mynd so full of ffollye,
Sythe thus dothe Raygne this false newfanglydnes.
| Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt | |