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Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt

Edited by Kenneth Muir and Patricia Thomson
21 occurrences of plaints
[Clear Hits]

21  collapse section 
13  collapse sectionI. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
 XXIX. 
 XXX. 
 XXXI. 
 XXXII. 
 XXXIII. 
 XXXIV. 
 XXXV. 
 XXXVI. 
 XXXVII. 
 XXXVIII. 
 XXXIX. 
 XL. 
 XLI. 
 XLII. 
 XLIII. 
 XLIV. 
 XLV. 
 XLVI. 
 XLVII. 
 XLVIII. 
 XLIX. 
 L. 
 LI. 
 LII. 
 LIII. 
LIII
 LIV. 
 LV. 
 LVI. 
 LVII. 
 LVIII. 
 LIX. 
 LX. 
 LXI. 
 LXII. 
 LXIII. 
 LXIV. 
 LXV. 
 LXVI. 
 LXVII. 
 LXVIII. 
 LXIX. 
 LXX. 
 LXXI. 
 LXXII. 
 LXXIII. 
 LXXIV. 
 LXXV. 
 LXXVI. 
 LXXVII. 
 LXXVIII. 
 LXXIX. 
 LXXX. 
 LXXXI. 
 LXXXII. 
 LXXXIII. 
 LXXXIV. 
 LXXXV. 
 LXXXVI. 
 LXXXVII. 
 LXXXVIII. 
 LXXXIX. 
 XC. 
 XCI. 
 XCII. 
 XCIII. 
 XCIV. 
 XCV. 
 XCVI. 
 XCVII. 
 XCVIII. 
 XCIX. 
 C. 
 CI. 
 CII. 
 CIII. 
 CIV. 
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21 occurrences of plaints
[Clear Hits]

LIII

[Where shall I have at myn owne will]

Where shall I have at myn owne will
Teres to complain? Where shall I fett
Suche sighes that I may sigh my fill
And then again my plaintes repete?
For tho my previous hit plaint next hit shall have none end,
My teres cannot suffice my woo.
To mone my harme have I no frend
For fortunes frend is myshappes ffoo.
Comfort (god wot) els have I none,
But in the wynde to wast my wordes.
Nought moveth you my dedly mone,
But all you torne it into bordes.
I speke not now to move your hert
That you should rue vpon my pain;
The sentence geven may not revert:
I know such labour were but vayn.
But syns that I for you, my dere,
Have lost that thing that was my best,
A right small losse it must appere
To lese thes wordes and all the rest.
But tho they sparkill in the wynde,
Yet shall they shew your falsed faith
Which is retorned vnto his kynde,
For like to like the proverbe saieth.

40

Fortune and you did me avaunce;
Me thought I swam and could not drowne;
Happiest of all, but my myschaunce
Did lyft me vp to throwe me downe.
And you with your owne crulnes
Did set your fote vpon my neck,
Me and my welfare to oppresse,
Without offence your hert to wreke.
Where are your plaisaunt wordes, alas,
Where your faith, your stedfastnes?
There is no more but all doth passe,
And I ame left all comfortles.
But forbicause it doeth you greve
And also me my wretched liff,
Have here my trouth: shall not releve,
But deth alone my wery striff.
Therefore farewell my liff, my deth,
My gayn, my losse, my salve, my sore!
Farewell also with you my breth!
For I ame gone for evermore
Podra esser che no es