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Avising the bright beams of these fair eyes Where he is that mine oft moisteth and washeth, The wearied mind straight from the heart departeth For to rest in his worldly paradise And find the sweet bitter under this guise. What webs he hath wrought well he perceiveth Whereby with himself on love he plaineth That spurreth with fire and bridleth with ice. Thus is it in such extremity brought, In frozen thought, now and now it standeth in flame. Twixt misery and wealth, twixt earnest and game, But few glad, and many diverse thought With sore repentance of his hardiness. Of such a root cometh fruit fruitless.
Thomas Wyatt’s other poems:
