To Her Brother G. W. Poem by Isabella Whitney

Good Brother whe a vacat time
doth cause you hence to ryde:
And that the fertyl feelds do make,
you from the Cittie byde.
Then canot I once from you heare
nor know I how to send:
Or where to harken of your health
and al this would be kend.
And most of me, for why I least.
of Fortunes fauour fynd:
No yeldyng yeare she me allowes,
nor goodes hath me assind.
But styll to friends I must appeale
(and next our Parentes deare,)
You are, and must be chiefest staffe
that I shal stay on heare.
Wherfore mine owne good brother graunt
me when yt you ar here:
To se you oft and also hence,
I may haue knowledge wheare
A messenger to harke vnto,
that I to you may wryte:
And eke of him your answers haue
which would my hart delight.
Receaue of me, and eke accept,
a simple token heare:
A smell of such a Nosegay as
I do for present beare.
Unto a vertuous Ladye, which
tyll death I honour wyll:
The losse I had of seruice hers,
I languish for it styll.