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


The Lover lamenteth his Estate with suit for Grace

FOR want of will in woe I plain,

Under colour of soberness;

Renewing with my suit my pain,

My wanhope with your steadfastness.

Awake therefore of gentleness;

Regard, at length, I you require,

My swelting pains of my desire.

Betimes who giveth willingly,

Redoubled thanks aye doth deserve;

And I that sue unfeignedly,

In fruitless hope, alas! do sterve.

How great my cause is for to swerve,

And yet how steadfast is my suit,

Lo, here ye see: where is the fruit?

As hound that hath his keeper lost,

Seek I your presence to obtain;

In which my heart delighteth most,

And shall delight though I be slain.

You may release my band of pain;

Loose then the care that makes me cry

For want of help, or else I die.

I die though not incontinent;

By process, yet consumingly,

As waste of fire which doth relent:

If you as wilful will deny.

Wherefore cease of such cruelty,

And take me wholly in your grace;

Which lacketh will to change his place.