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


The Lover waileth his changed Joys

IF every man might him avaunt

Of fortune’s friendly cheer;

It was myself, I must it grant,

For I have bought it dear:

And dearly have I held also

The glory of her name,

In yielding her such tribute, lo,

As did set forth her fame.

Sometime I stood so in her grace,

That as I would require,

Each joy I thought did me embrace,

That furthered my desire:

And all those pleasures, lo, had I,

That fancy might support;

And nothing she did me deny

That was unto my comfort.

I had, what would you more, perdie?

Each grace that I did crave;

Thus Fortune’s will was unto me

All thing that I would have:

But all too rathe, alas the while,

She built on such a ground:

In little space, too great a guile

In her now have I found.

For she hath turned so her wheel,

That I, unhappy man,

May wail the time that I did feel

Wherewith she fed me than:

For broken now are her behests,

And pleasant looks she gave,

And therefore now all my requests

From peril cannot save.

Yet would I well it might appear

To her my chief regard;

Though my deserts have been too dear

To merit such reward:

Since Fortune’s will is now so bent

To plague me thus, poor man,

I must myself therewith content,

And bear it as I can.