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

Lo what it is to love!
Lerne ye that list to prove
At me, I say,
No ways that may
The growndyd greiff remove,
My liff alwaie
That doeth decaye:
Lo what it is to love!

Fle alwaye from the snare,
Lerne by me to beware
Of suche a trayne
Which dowbles payne,
And endles woo and care,
That doth retayne;
Which to refrayne
Fle alwaye from the snare.

To love and to be wise,
To rage with good aduyse,
Now thus, now than,
Now of, now an,
Vncertyn as the dyse;
There is no man
At ons that can
To love and to be wise.

Suche are the dyvers throws,
Suche that no man knows
That hath not profd
And ons have lofd;
Suche are the raging woos,
Soner reprofd
Then well remofd:
Suche are the dyvers throwes.

Love is a fervent fire,
Kendeld by hote desire,
For a short pleasure
Long displeasur;
Repentaunce is the hire;
A poure tresoure
Withoute mesure,
Love is a fervent fire.

Lo what it is to love!

Leve thus to slaunder love!
Though evill with suche it prove
Which often vse
Love to mysuse
And loving to reprove;
Such cannot chose
For their refuse
But thus to slaunder love.

Fle not so much the snare;
Love sildom causeth care,
But by deserftes
And crafty partes
Some lese their owne welfare;
Be true of hertes
And for no smartes
Fle not so much the snare.

To love and not to be wise
Is but a mad devise;
Such love doeth last
As sure and fast
As chansys off the dise
A bitter tast
Coms at the last
To love and not to be wise.

Suche be the plaisaunt daies,
Suche be the honest wayes;
There is no man
That fully can
Knowe it but he that sayes
Loving to ban
Were folly then:
Such be the plaisaunt daies.

Love is a plaisaunt fire
Kyndled by true desire,
And though the payne
Cause men to playne,
Sped well is oft the hiere;
Then though som fayne
And lese the gayne
Love is a plaisaunt fyer.

Who most doeth slaunder love
The dede must alwaye prove;
Trouth shall excuse
That you accuse
For slaunder and reprove;
Not by refuse
But by abuse
You most do slaunder love.

Ye graunt it is a snare
And would vs not beware;
Lest that your trayne
Should be to playne
Ye colour all the care;
Lo how you fayne
Pleasure for payne
And graunt it is a snare!

To love and to be wise,
It were a straunge devise;
But from that tast
Ye vow the fast;
On zyns tho runne your dise,
Ambs as may hast
Your payne to wast:
To love and to be wise!

Of all suche pleasaunt dayes,
Of all suche pleasaunt playes,
Without deserft
You have your part,
And all the worould so sayes;
Save that poure hert
That for more smert
Feleth yet suche pleasaunt dayes.

Such fire and suche hete
Did never make ye swete,
For withoute payne
You best obtayne
To good spede and to great;
Who so doeth playne
You best do fayne
Such fire and suche hete.

Who now doeth slaunder love?