Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503–42). The Poetical Works. 1880.
OdesThe Lover complaineth himself forsaken
W
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.