Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503–42). The Poetical Works. 1880.
OdesThe Lover praiseth the Beauty of his Ladys Hand
O
Wherein doth stand
My heart distract in pain:
Dear hand, alas!
In little space
My life thou dost restrain.
Departed right,
So long, so small, so round!
Goodly begone,
And yet a bone
Most cruel in my wound.
And roses bright
Doth strain thy colour fair:
Nature did lend
Each finger’s end
A pearl for to repair.
Since that thou hast
My heart in thy demain,
For service true
On me to rue,
And reach me love again.
There with more woe
Enforce thyself to strain
This simple heart,
That suffered smart,
And rid it out of pain.