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

Th'answere that ye made to me, my dere,
Whann I did sewe for my poore hartes redresse,
Hathe so appalld my countenaunce and my chere,
That yn this case I ame all comfortlesse,
Sins I of blame no cawse can well expresse.

I haue no wrong wher I cann clayme no right;
Nowght tane me fro wher I nothing haue had;
Yete of my wo I cann nott so be quyte,
Namely sins that another may be glad
With that that thus in sorowe makethe me sad.

Another? why, shall lyberty be bond?
Fre hart may not be bond but by desert.

Nor none cann clayme, I say, by former graunte
That knowithe nott of any graunt att all;
And by deserte I dare well make avaunte,
Of faythfull will ther is no wher that shall
Bere you more trowthe, more redy att your call.

Now good then call agayne that frendly word
That sleithe your frende in saving of his payne;
And say, my dere, that itt was sayde in borde;
Late or too sone lett that nott rule the gayne,
Wherwith fre will doth trew deserte retayne.