BALLADE: 10 by THOMAS WYATT

My hope, alas, hath me abused,
And vain rejoicing hath me fed;
Lust and joy have me refused,
And careful plaint is in their stead;
Too much avancing slaked my speed;
Mirth hath caused my heaviness,
And I remain all comfortless.

Whereto did I assure my thought
Without displeasure steadfastly?
In fortune's forge my joy was wrought,
And is revolted readily.
I am mistaken wonderly;
For I thought naught but faithfulness,
Yet I remain all comfortless.

In gladsome cheer I did delight,
Till that delight did cause my smart
And all was wrong where I thought right;
For right it was that my true heart
Should not from truth be set apart,
Since truth did cause my hardiness:
Yet I remain all comfortless.

Sometime delight did tune my song,
And led my heart full pleasantly;
And to myself I said among:
"My hap is coming hastily."
But it hath happed contrary:
Assurance causeth my distress,
And I remain all comfortless.

Then if my note now do vary,
And leave his wonted pleasantness,
The heavy burden that I carry
Hath altered all my joyfulness.
No pleasure hath still steadfastness,
But haste hath hurt my happiness,
And I remain all comfortless.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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