Departure Is My Chef Payne
Departure is my chef payne;
I trust ryght wel of retorn agane.
poem by Henry VIII King of England
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Alac, Alac, What Shall I Do
Alac, alac, what shall I do,
For care is cast into my hart,
And trew love lokked therto?
poem by Henry VIII King of England
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O My Hart!
O my hart and O my hart!
My hart it is so sore,
Sens I must nedys from my love depart
And know no cunse wherefore.
poem by Henry VIII King of England
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Alas, What Shall I Do For Love?
Alas, what shall I do for love?
For love, alasse, what shall I do?
Syth now so kynd
I do you fynde
To kepe yow me unto?
Alasse!
poem by Henry VIII King of England
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Adieu Madam Et Ma Mastres
Adieu madam et ma mastres.
Adieu mon solas et mon Joy.
Adieu iusque vous reuoye,
Adieu vous diz per graunt tristesse.
Adew, madam, and my mystresse,
Adew, my sollace and my ioye!
Adew untyll agayne I see yow,
Adew I saye ouercom by sadnesse.
poem by Henry VIII King of England
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Helas Madam
Helas madam cel que ie me tant
soffre que soie voutre humble seruant
voutre vumble seruant ie ray a tousiours
e tant que ie viueray altre naimeray que vous.
Alas, madam, who I love so much,
Allow me to be your humble servant:
Your humble servant I will always remain,
And as long as I live, no other will I love.
poem by Henry VIII King of England
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Withowt Dyscord
Withowt dyscord
And bothe acorde
Now let us be;
Bothe hartes alone
To set in one
Best semyth me.
For when one sole
Ys in the dole
Of lovys payne,
Then helpe must have
Hymselfe to save
And love to optayne.
Wherfore now we
That lovers be
Let us now pray
Onys love sure
For to procure
Withowt denay.
Wher love so sewith,
Ther no hart rewith
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poem by Henry VIII King of England
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Whoso that will for gracë sue
Whoso that will for gracë sue
His intent must needs be true,
And lovë her in heart and deed,
Else it were pity that he should speed.
Many one saith that love is ill,
But those be they which can no skill.
Or else because they may not obtain,
They would that other should it disdain.
But love is a thing given by God,
In that therefore can be none odd;
But perfect indeed and between two,
Wherefore then should we it eschew?
poem by Henry VIII King of England
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The Tyme Of Youthe
The tyme of youthe is to be spent;
But vice in it shuld be forfent.
Pastymes ther be I nought treulye
Whych one may use, and vice denye;
And they be plesant to God and man,
Those shuld we covit wyn who can;
As featys of armys, and suche other
Wherby actyvenesse oon may utter.
Comparysons in them may lawfully be sett,
For therby corage is suerly owt fett:
Vertue it is then youth for to spend
In goode dysporttys whych it dothe fend.
poem by Henry VIII King of England
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Wherto Shuld I Expresse
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.
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poem by Henry VIII King of England
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