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. Though that Men do Call it Dotage
2. Wherto Shuld I Expresse
3. Though Some Saith That Youth Ruleth Me
4. The Time of Youth is to be Spent
5. Departure Is My Chef Payne

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