Poem by Henry VIII, King of England

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Wherto shuld I expresse
My inward hevynes?
No myrth can make me fayn
Tyl that we mete agayne.

Do way, dere hart, not so.
Let no thought yow dysmaye!
Thow ye now parte me fro,
We shall mete when we may.

When I remembyr me
Of your most gentyll mynde,
It may in no wyse agre
That I shuld be unkynde.

The daise delectable,
The violett wan and blo;
Ye ar not varyable;
I love you and no mo.

I make you fast and sure;
It ys to me gret payne
Thus longe to endure,
Tyll that we mete agayne.

1. Though that Men do Call it Dotage
2. The Time of Youth is to be Spent
3. Pastime with Good Company
4. Though Some Saith That Youth Ruleth Me
5. Lusty Youth Should Us Ensue

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