Versión en el Manuscrito Egerton
Myne olde dere En’mye, my froward master,
Afore that Quene I caused to be acited;
Which holdeth the divine parte of nature:
That, lyke as goolde, in fyre he mought be tryed.
Charged with dolour, theare I me presented
With horrible fear, as one that greatlye dredith
A wrongfull death, and iustice alwaye seekethe.
And thus I sayde: ‘Once my lefte foote, Madame,
When I was yonge I sett within his reigne;
Whearby other than fiercelye burninge flame
I never felt, but many a grevous payne;
Tourment I suffred, angre and disdayne,
That myne oppressed patience was past
And I myne owne life hated at the last.
Thus hytherto have I my time passed
In payne and smarte. What wayes proffitable,
How many pleasant dayes have me escaped
In serving this false lyer so deceaveable?
What witt have wordes so prest and forceable,
That may contayne my great myshappynesse,
And iust complayntes of his vngentlenesse?
O small hony, much aloes, and gall,
In bitterness have my blynde lyfe taisted
His fals swetenes, that torneth as a ball,
With the amourous dawnce, have made me traced:
And where I had my thought and mynde araced
From all erthely frailnes and vain pleasure,
He toke me from rest, and set me in errour.
He hath made me regarde god muche less then I ought
And to my self to take right litle heede:
And, for a woman, have I set at nought
All othre thoughtes, in this onely to spede:
And he was onely counceillour of this dede,
Alwayes wheting my youthely desyere
On the cruell whetstone, tempered with fiere.
But (helas) where, nowe, had I ever wit?
Or els any othre gift geven me of nature?
That souner shall chaunge my weryed sprite
Then the obstinate will that is my rueler.
So robbeth my libertie with displeasure
This wicked traytour whom I thus accuse
That bitter liff have torned me in pleasaunt vse.
He hath chased me thorough dyvers regions,
Thorough desert wodes and sherp high mountaignes,
Thorough frowarde people and straite pressions,
Thorrough rocky sees, over hilles and playnes,
With wery travaill and labourous paynes,
Alwayes in trouble and in tediousnes,
In all errour and daungerous distres.
But nother he, nor she, my tother ffoo,
For all my flyght, did ever me forsake:
That though tymely deth hath ben to sloo
That, as yet, it hath me not overtake;
The hevynly goodenes of pitie do it slake
And not this his cruell extreme tyranny
That fedeth hym with my care and mysery.
Syns I was his, owre rested I never,
Nor loke for to do, and eke the waky nyghtes
The bannysshed slepe may no wyse recouer.
By decept and by force over my sprites
He is rueler; and syns there never bell strikes
Where I ame, that I here not my playntes to renewe;
And he himself, he knoweth that that I say is true.
Ffor never wormes have an old stock eaten
As he my hert, where he is alwaye resident;
And doeth the same with deth daily thretyn.
Thens com the teres and the bitter torment,
The sighes, the wordes, and eke the languisshement
That annoye boeth me and, peraduenture, othre;
Iudge thou, that knowest th’one and th’othre’.
Myn aduersary, with grevous reprouff,
Thus he began: ‘here, lady, th’othre part:
That the plain trueth from which he draweth alowff,
This vnkynd man, shall shew ere that I part.
In yonge age I toke him from that art
That selleth wordes, and maketh a clattering knyght;
And of my welth I gave him the delight.
Nowe shameth he not on me for to complain
That held him evermore in pleasaunt game
From his desire that myght have ben his payne;
Yet onely thereby I broght him to some frame,
Which, as wretchednes he doth greately blame:
And towerd honour I qwickened his wit,
Where els, as a daskard, he myght have sitt.
He knoweth that Atrides, that made Troye frete
And Hannyball, to Rome so trobelous;
Whome Homere honoured, Achilles that grete,
And the Affricane Scipion, the famous,
And many othre, by much vertue glorious,
Whose fame and honour did bryng theim above
I did let fall in base dishonest love.
And vnto him, thoughe he no deles worthy were
I chose right the best of many a mylion,
That, vnder the mone, was never her pere,
Of wisdome, womanhode, and discretion;
And of my grace I gave her suche a facon
And eke suche a way I taught her for to teche,
That never base thought his hert myght have reche.
Evermore thus to content his maistres
That was his onely frame of honeste.
I sterred him, still, towerd gentilnes,
And caused him to regard fidelitie;
Patiens I taught him in aduersite:
Suche vertues he lerned in my great schole,
Wherof he repenteth, the ignoraunt ffole.
These were the deceptes and the bitter gall
That I have vsed, the torment and the anger;
Sweter then for to injoye eny othre in all.
Of right good seede ill fruyte I gather
And so hath he that th’unkynd doeth forther.
I norisshe a Serpent vnder my wyng
And of his nature nowe gynneth he to styng.
And for to tell at last my great seruise
From thousand dishonestes I have him drawen:
That by my meanes in no maner of wyse
Never vile pleasure him hath overthrawen
Where in his dede shame hath him alwaies gnawen
Dowbting repoort that should com to her eere;
Whome now he accuseth, he wonnted to fere.
What soever he hath of any honest custume
Of her and me, that holdeth he every wit;
But, lo, there was never nyghtely fantome
So ferre in errour as he is from his wit;
To plain on vs he stryveth with the bit,
Which may ruell him and do him pleasure and pain,
And in oon Oure make all his greif remayn.
But oon thing there is above all othre:
I gave him wynges wherewith he myght flye
To honour and fame, and if he would farther
By mortall thinges above the starry skye;
Considering the pleasure that an Iye
Myght geve in erthe by reason of his love
What should that be, that lasteth still above?
And he the same himself hath sayed, or this,
But now forgotten is both that and I
That gave her him his onely welth and blisse’.
And, at this worde, with dedly shright and cry:
‘Thou gave her me’ (quod I) ‘but, by and by
Thou toke her streight from me, that wo worth thee!’
‘Not I’ (quod he) ‘but price, that is well worthy.’
At last, boethe, eche for himself, concluded,
I trembling; but he, with small reverence:
‘Lo, thus, as we have nowe eche othre accused,
Dere lady, we wayte onely thy sentence’.
She, smyling: ‘after thissaid audience,
It liketh me’ (quod she) ‘to have herd your question:
But lenger tyme doth aske resolution.’
Fuente: Collected poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt. Edited by Kenneth Muir and Patricia Thomson. Liverpool University Press. 1969.