Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503–42). The Poetical Works. 1880.
OdesThe Lover waileth his changed Joys
I
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.