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

Sythe I my selffe dysplease the,
My ffrends why shuld I blame
That from the ffawte aduyse me
That Kynkoryd my good name,
And mad my mynd to morne
That laughyt my lov to skorne,
And bownd my hart allwaye
To thynk this payne a playe,
That wold and neuer maye?

178

Too led my lyffe at lybertye,
I lyk yt wonders well,
Ffor proffe hath tought his propertye
That allway payne is hell;
But sythe so well I wott
Theys kyndes of cold and hott,
Suche ffancyes I fforsake,
That dothe ther ffredome lake;
My lyst no more to make.

Grodge one that ffell the greffe,
I laughe that ffell the gayne
Of ffredome from the lyffe
Wherby wyld beastys be tayme.
As ffast and wak a bedde,
With hart and hevy hed,
That haue a hongery hart
To mak my selffe well ffed,
That may Redresse my smart.

Sythe I have slept the knot
That dothe my hart inchayne,
I lyk the loky lotte
To well to knyt agayne.
So newly com to welthe,
Shall I deceayue my selffe?
Nay, set thy hart at reast,
Ffor welthe, my new ffownd gest,
Shall harber in my neast.

To mak a wyllffull band
Wher I may well Reffus,
To be a byrde in hand
And not my ffredome vse,
To syng and sorow not
Yf wyllyngly I dott,
To slypp in to the cayge,
Yt were a wylffull Rage.