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

Most wretchid hart most myserable,
Syns the comforte is from the fled,
Syns all the trouthe is turned to fable,
Most wretchid harte why arte thou nott ded?

No, no, I lyve and must doo still,
Whereof I thank god and no mo;
Ffor I me selff have all my will,
And he is wretchid that wens hym so.

Butt yete thow hast bothe had and lost
The hope so long that hathe the fed,
And all thy travayle and thy cost:
Most wretchid harte why arte thow nott ded?

Some other hope must fede me new;
Yff I haue lost I say ‘what tho?’
Dyspayr shall nott throwghe it ynsew
For he is wretchid that wenys hym so.

The sonne, the mone doth frowne on the;
Thow hast darkenes in daylightes stede;
As good in grave as soo to be:
Moost wretched hert why art thou not ded?

Some plesant sterre may shewe me light,
But tho the heven wold worke me woo,
Who hath himself shal stande vp right,
And he is wretched that wens him soo.

Hath he himself that is not sure?
His trust is like as he hath sped;
Against the streme thou maist not dure:
Most wretched herte, why art thou not ded?

The last is worst, who feres not that.
He hath himself where so he goo;
And he that knoweth what is what
Sayeth he is wretched that wens him soo.

Seist thou not how they whet their teth,
Which to touche the somtime ded drede?
They finde comforte for thy mischief:
Moost wretched hert, why art thou not dede?

What tho that currs do fal by kinde
On him that hathe the overthrow?
Al that can not opresse my minde,
For he is wretched that wens him soo.

Yet can it not be thenne denyd,
It is as certain as thy crede;
Thy gret vnhap thou canst not hid:
Vnhappy thenne why art thou not dede?

Vnhappy, but no wretche therfore,
For happe doth come again and goo;
For whiche I kepe my self in store,
Sins vnhap cannot kil me soo.