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


The Lover complaineth himself forsaken

WHERE shall I have at mine own will,

Tears to complain? where shall I fet

Such sighs, that I may sigh my fill,

And then again my plaints repeat?

For, though my plaint shall have none end,

My tears cannot suffice my woe:

To moan my harm have I no friend;

For fortune’s friend is mishap’s foe.

Comfort, God wot, else have I none,

But in the wind to waste my wordes;

Nought moveth you my deadly moan,

But still you turn it into bordes.

I speak not now, to move your heart,

That you should rue upon my pain;

The sentence given may not revert:

I know such labour were but vain.

But since that I for you, my dear,

Have lost that thing, that was my best;

A right small loss it must appear

To lose these words, and all the rest.

But though they sparkle in the wind,

Yet shall they shew your falsed faith;

Which is returned to his kind;

For like to like, the proverb saith.

Fortune and you did me avance;

Methought I swam, and could not drown:

Happiest of all; but my mischance

Did lift me up, to throw me down.

And you with her, of cruelness

Did set your foot upon my neck,

Me, and my welfare, to oppress;

Without offence your heart to wreck.

Where are your pleasant words, alas?

Where is your faith? your steadfastness?

There is no more but all doth pass,

And I am left all comfortless.

But since so much it doth you grieve,

And also me my wretched life,

Have here my truth: nought shall relieve,

But death alone, my wretched strife.

Therefore farewell, my life, my death;

My gain, my loss, my salve, my sore;

Farewell also, with you my breath;

For I am gone for evermore.