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

That tyme that myrthe dyd stere my shypp
Whyche now ys frowght with heuenes,
And fortune bot not then the lypp,
But was Defence off my Dystresse,
Then in my boke wrote my mystresse:
‘I am yowres you may be well sure,
And shall be whyle my lyff dothe dure.’

But She her selffe whyche then wrote that
Is now myn extreme enemye;
Above all men she dothe me hate,
Reioysyng of my myserye;
But thoughe that for her sake I dye,

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I shall be hyrs she may be sure,
As long as my lyff dothe endure.

It is not tyme than can were out
With me that once ys fermly sett;
Whyle nature kepys her cours Abowt
My hate frome her no man can lett;
Thowghe neuer so sore they me thrett,
Yet I am hyrs, she may be sure,
And shallbe whyle that lyff dothe dure,

And once I trust to see that day,
Renuer of my joy and welthe,
That She these wordes to me shall say:
‘In feythe, welcum to me myselffe,
Welcum my hart, welcum my helthe;
Ffor I am thyne, thow mayst be sure,
And shallbe whyle that lyff dothe dure.’

Ho me! alas! What woordes were theyse?
In couenant I myght fynd them so!
I Reke not what smart or dysease,
Tourment or troubel, payne or woo
I suffred so that I myght knoo
That she were myn, I myght be sure,
And shuld be whyle that lyff dothe dure.