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Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503–42). The Poetical Works. 1880.


He describeth the ceaseless Torments of Love

SINCE you will needs that I shall sing,

Take it in worth such as I have;

Plenty of plaint, moan, and mourning,

In deep despair and deadly pain.

Bootless for boot, crying to crave;

To crave in vain.

Such hammers work within my head

That sound nought else unto my ears,

But fast at board, and wake a-bed:

Such tune the temper to my song

To wail my wrong, that I want tears

To wail my wrong.

Death and despair afore my face,

My days decay, my grief doth grow;

The cause thereof is in this place,

Whom cruelty doth still constrain

For to rejoice, though I be woe,

To hear me plain.

A broken lute, untuned strings,

With such a song may well bear part,

That neither pleaseth him that sings,

Nor them that hear, but her alone

That with her heart would strain my heart

To hear it groan.

If it grieve you to hear this same,

That you do feel but in my voice,

Consider then what pleasant game

I do sustain in every part,

To cause me sing or to rejoice

Within my heart.