Verse > Sir Thomas Wyatt > Poetical Works
Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503–42).  The Poetical Works.  1880.
The Lover complaineth himself forsaken
WHERE shall I have at mine own will,
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,        5
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;        10
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:        15
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.        20
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;        25
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,        30
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,        35
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.        40
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.

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