T HERE was never nothing more me pain'd
  Nor more my pity mov'd,
  As when my sweetheart her complain'd,
That ever she me lov'd.
                  Alas ! the while !
With piteous look she said, and sight,1
' Alas ! what aileth me ?
To love, and set my wealth so light,
On him that loveth not me ;
                  Alas ! the while !
' Was I not well void of all pain,
When that nothing me griev'd ?
And now with sorrows I must complain,
And cannot be reliev'd,
                  Alas ! the while !
' My restful nights, and joyful days,
Since I began to love
Be take from me ; all thing decays,
Yet can I not remove,
                  Alas ! the while !'
She wept and wrung her hands withal,
The tears fell in my neck :
She turned her face, and let it fall ;
And scarce therewith could speak :
                  Alas ! the while !
Her pains tormented me so sore
That comfort had I none,
But cursed my fortune more and more
To see her sob and groan,
                  Alas ! the while !

1  Sighed.

Yeowell, James, Ed. The Poetical Works of Sir Thomas Wyatt.
London: George Bell and Sons, 1904. 57-58.

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