Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt Edited by Kenneth Muir and Patricia Thomson |
21 |
13 | I. |
II. |
4 | III. |
IV. |
2 | V. |
CLXXVIII. |
CLXXIX. |
1 | CLXXX. |
CLXXXI. |
CLXXXII. |
CLXXXIII. |
CLXXXIV. |
CLXXXV. |
CLXXXVI. |
CLXXXVII. |
CLXXXVIII. |
CLXXXIX. |
CXC. |
CXCI. |
CXCII. |
CXCIII. |
CXCIV. |
CXCV. |
CXCVI. |
CXCVII. |
CXCVIII. |
CXCIX. |
CC. |
CCI. |
CCII. |
CCIII. |
CCIV. |
CCV. |
CCVI. |
CCVII. |
CCVIII. |
1 | CCIX. |
CCX. |
CCXI. |
CCXII. |
CCXIII. |
CCXIV. |
CCXV. |
CCXVI. |
CCXVII. |
CCXVIII. |
CCXIX. |
CCXX. |
CCXXI. |
CCXXII. |
CCXXIII. |
CCXXIV. |
CCXXV. |
CCXXVI. |
CCXXVII. |
CCXXVIII. |
CCXXIX. |
CCXXX. |
CCXXXI. |
CCXXXII. |
CCXXXIII. |
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 | ||