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

Farewell all my wellfare,
My shue is trode awry;
Now may I karke and care
To syng lullay by by.
Alas! what shall I do thereto?
There ys no shyffte to helpe me now.

Who made hytt such offence
To love for love agayn?
God wott that my pretence
Was but to ease hys payn;
Ffor I had Ruthe to se hys wo;
Alas, more fole, Why did I so?

For he frome me ys gone
And makes thereat a game
And hathe leffte me Alone
To suffer sorow and shame.
Alas! he is vnkynd dowtles
To leve me thus all comfortles.

Hytt ys a grevows smarte
To suffer paynes and sorrowe;
But most it grevyd my hart
He leyde hys feythe to borow;
And falshode hathe hys feythe and trowthe,
And he forsworne by many an othe.

All ye lovers, perde,
Hathe cawse to blame hys dede,
Whyche shall example be
To lett yow off yowre spede;
Let neuer woman Agayn
Trust to suche wordes as men can fayn.

For I vnto my coste
Am warnyng to yow all,
That they whom you trust most

193

Sonest dysceyve yow shall;
But complaynt cannot redresse
Of my gret greff the gret excesse.