Verse > Sir Thomas Wyatt > Poetical Works
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Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503–42).  The Poetical Works.  1880.
 
Odes
The Lover prayeth that his Lady’s Heart might be inflamed with equal Affection
 
  LOVE doth again
Put me to pain,
And yet all is but lost.
I serve in vain,
And am certain,        5
Of all misliked most.
  Both heat and cold
Doth so me hold,
And comber so my mind;
That whom I should        10
Speak and behold,
It driveth me still behind.
  My wits be past,
My life doth waste,
My comfort is exiled;        15
And I in haste,
Am like to taste
How love hath me beguiled.
  Unless that right
May in her sight        20
Obtain pity and grace;
Why should a wight
Have beauty bright,
If mercy have no place.
  Yet I, alas!        25
Am in such case;
That back I cannot go;
But still forth trace
A patient pace,
And suffer secret woe.        30
  For with the wind
My fired mind
Doth still inflame;
And she unkind
That did me bind,        35
Doth turn it all to game.
  Yet can no pain
Make me refrain,
Nor here and there to range;
I shall retain        40
Hope to obtain
Her heart that is so strange.
  But I require
The painful fire,
That oft doth make me sweat;        45
For all my ire,
With like desire,
To give her heart a heat.
  Then she shall prove
How I her love,        50
And what I have offer’d;
Which should her move,
For to remove
The pains that I have suffer’d.
  And better fee        55
Than she gave me,
She shall of me attain;
For whereas she
Shewed cruelty,
She shall my heart obtain.        60
 
 
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