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

Hevyn and erth and all that here me plain
Do well perceve what care doeth cause me cry,
Save you alone to whome I cry in vain:
‘Mercy, madame, alas, I dy, I dy!’

Yf that you slepe, I humbly you require
Forbere a while and let your rigour slake
Syns that by you I burne thus in this fire:
To here my

plaint

, dere hert, awake, awake!

Syns that so oft ye have made me to wake
In

plaint

and teres and in right pitious case,
Displease you not if force do now me make
To breke your slepe, crieng ‘alas, alas!’

It is the last trouble that ye shall have
Of me, madame, to here my last complaint:
Pitie at lest your poure vnhappy slave
For in dispere, alas, I faint, I faint!

It is not now, but long and long ago
I have you serued as to my powre and myght
As faithfully as any man myght do,
Clayming of you nothing of right, of right.

Save of your grace only to stay my liff,
That fleith as fast as clowd afore the wynde;
For syns that first I entred in this stryff
An inward deth hath fret my mynde, my mynd.

Yf I had suffered this to you vnware,
Myn were the fawte and you nothing to blame;
But syns you know my woo and all my care
Why do I dy? Alas, for shame, for shame!

I know right well my face, my lowke, my teeres,
Myn Iyes, my Wordes, and eke my drery chiere
Have cryd my deth full oft vnto your eres;
Herd of belefe it doeth appere, appere!

A better prouff I se that ye would have
How I ame dede; therefore when ye here tell
Beleve it not all tho ye se my grave.
Cruell, vnkynd! I say farewell, farewell!