SONG: 105 by THOMAS WYATT

Now all of change
Must be my song
And from my bond now must I break,
Since she so strange
Unto my wrong
Doth stop her ears to hear me speak.

Yet none doth know
So well as she
My grief which can have no restraint;
That fain would follow
Now needs must flee
For fault of ear unto my plaint.

I am not he
By false assays
Nor feigned faith can bear in hand,
Though most I see
That such always
Are best for to be understand.

But I that truth
Hath always meant
Doth still proceed to serve in vain;
Desire pursueth
My time misspent,
And doth not pass upon my pain.

O fortune's might
That each compels,
And me the most, it doth suffice
Now for my right
To ask naught else
But to withdraw this enterprise.

And for the gain
Of that good hour,
Which of my woe shall be relief,
I shall refrain
By painful power
The thing that most hath been my grief.

I shall not miss
To exercise
The help thereof which doth me teach,
That after this
In any wise
To keep right within my reach.

And she unjust,
Which fareth not
In this her fame to be defiled,
Yet once I trust
Shall be my lot,
To quit the craft that me beguiled.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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