Poem by Henry VIII, King of England

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If love now reynyd as it hath bene
And war rewardit as it hath sene,

Nobyll men then wold suer enserch
All ways wherby thay myght it rech;

But envy reynyth with such dysdayne,
And causith lovers owtwardly to refrayne,

Which puttes them to more and more
Inwardly most grevous and sore;

The faut in whome I cannot sett;
But let them tell which love doth gett.

To lovers I put now suer this cace -
Which of ther loves doth get them grace?

And unto them which doth it know
Better than do I, I thynk it so.

1. Wherto Shuld I Expresse
2. Though that Men do Call it Dotage
3. The Time of Youth is to be Spent
4. Pastime with Good Company
5. Though Some Saith That Youth Ruleth Me

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