My Lady's Hand

By Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542).

O goodly hand!
Wherein doth stand
      My heart distraught in pain;
Dear hand, alas!
In little space        5
      My life thou dost restrain.

O fingers slight!
Departed right,
      So long, so small, so round;
Goodly begone,        10
And yet a bone,
      Most cruel in my wound.

With lilies white
And roses bright
      Doth strain thy colour fair;        15
Nature did lend
Each finger’s end
      A pearl for to repair.

Consent at last,
Since that thou hast        20
      My heart in thy demesne
For service true
On me to rue,
      And reach me love again.

And if not so,        25
There with more woe
      Enforce thyself to strain
This simple heart,
That suffer’d smart,
      And rid it out of pain.        30