Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503–42). The Poetical Works. 1880.
OdesOf the Contrary Affections of the Lover
S
Had never man of truth I ween;
At me Fortune list to begin,
To shew that never hath been seen,
A new kind of unhappiness;
Nor I cannot the thing I mean
Myself express.
Myself express my deadly pain,
That can I well, if that might serve;
But when I have not help again,
That know I not, unless I sterve,
For hunger still amiddes my food
[Lacking the thing] that I deserve
To do me good.
To do me good what may prevail,
For I deserve, and not desire,
And still of cold I me bewail,
And raked am in burning fire;
For though I have, such is my lot,
In hand to help that I require,
It helpeth not.
It helpeth not but to increase
That, that by proof can be no more;
That is, the heat that cannot cease;
And that I have, to crave so sore.
What wonder is this greedy lust!
To ask and have, and yet therefore
Refrain I must.
Refrain I must; what is the cause?
Sure as they say, ‘So hawks be taught.’
But in my case layeth no such clause;
For with such craft I am not caught;
Wherefore I say, and good cause why,
With hapless hand no man hath raught
Such hap as I.