BALLADE: 8 by THOMAS WYATT

In faith I wot not well what to say,
Thy chances been so wonderous,
Thou fortune, with thy divers play
That causeth joy full dolorous,
And eke the same right joyous
Yet though thy chain hath me enwrapped,
Spite of thy hap, hap hath well happed.

Though thou me set for a wonder,
And seekest thy change to do me pain,
Men's minds yet may thou not order,
And honest, and it remain,
Shall shine for all thy cloudy rain;
In vain thou seekest to have me trapped:
Spite of thy hap, hap hath well happed.

In hindering thou didst further,
And made a gap where was a stile;
Cruel wills been oft put under,
Weening to lour, thou didst smile.
Lord! how thyself thou didst beguile,
That in thy cares wouldst me have lapped!
But spite of thy hap, hap hath well happed.

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