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


The Lover rejoiceth the enjoying of his Love

ONCE, as methought, fortune me kiss’d,

And bade me ask what I thought best,

And I should have it as me list,

Therewith to set my heart in rest.

I asked but my lady’s heart,

To have for evermore mine own;

Then at an end were all my smart;

Then should I need no more to moan.

Yet for all that a stormy blast

Had overturn’d this goodly nay;

And fortune seemed at the last

That to her promise she said nay.

But like as one out of despair,

To sudden hope revived I,

Now Fortune sheweth herself so fair,

That I content me wondrously.

My most desire my hand may reach,

My will is alway at my hand;

Me need not long for to beseech

Her, that hath power me to command.

What earthly thing more can I crave?

What would I wish more at my will?

Nothing on earth more would I have,

Save that I have, to have it still.

For Fortune now hath kept her promess,

In granting me my most desire:

Of my sovereign I have redress,

And I content me with my hire.