Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt Edited by Kenneth Muir and Patricia Thomson |
| 21 |  |
| 13 | | I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| 1 | V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| 1 | XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| 1 | XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| 1 | LIII. |
| 1 | LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
| LVII. |
| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| 1 | LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. | LXV
|
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
| LXXII. |
| 2 | LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| 1 | LXXXII. |
| LXXXIII. |
| LXXXIV. |
| LXXXV. |
| LXXXVI. |
| LXXXVII. |
| LXXXVIII. |
| LXXXIX. |
| XC. |
| XCI. |
| XCII. |
| XCIII. |
| XCIV. |
| XCV. |
| XCVI. |
| XCVII. |
| 3 | XCVIII. |
| XCIX. |
| C. |
| 1 | CI. |
| CII. |
| CIII. |
| CIV. |
 | II. |
| 4 | | III. |
| IV. |
| 2 | | V. |
| VI. |
| 2 | | VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
 | Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt |  |
LXV
[Ons as me thought fortune me kyst]
Ons as me thought fortune me kyst
And bad me aske what I thought best,
And I should have it as me list
Therewith to set my hert in rest.
And bad me aske what I thought best,
And I should have it as me list
Therewith to set my hert in rest.
48
I asked nought but my dere hert
To have for evermore myn owne;
Then at an ende were all my smert,
Then should I nede no more to mone.
To have for evermore myn owne;
Then at an ende were all my smert,
Then should I nede no more to mone.
Yet for all that a stormy blast
Had overtorned this goodely day;
And fortune semed at the last
That to her promes she saide nay.
Had overtorned this goodely day;
And fortune semed at the last
That to her promes she saide nay.
But like as oon oute of dispere
To soudden hope revived I;
Now fortune sheweth herself so fayer
That I content me wonderly.
To soudden hope revived I;
Now fortune sheweth herself so fayer
That I content me wonderly.
My moost desire my hand may reche,
My will is alwaye at my hand;
Me nede not long for to beseche
Her that hath power me to commaund.
My will is alwaye at my hand;
Me nede not long for to beseche
Her that hath power me to commaund.
What erthely thing more can I crave?
What would I wisshe more at my will?
No thing on erth more would I have,
Save that I have to have it still.
What would I wisshe more at my will?
No thing on erth more would I have,
Save that I have to have it still.
For fortune hath kept her promes
In graunting me my moost desire:
Of my sufferaunce I have redres,
And I content me with my hiere.
In graunting me my moost desire:
Of my sufferaunce I have redres,
And I content me with my hiere.
| Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt | |