Henry VIII, King of England Poems

1 Green groweth the holly,
2 So doth the ivy.
3 Though winter blasts blow never so high,
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1 Pastime with good company
2 I love and shall unto I die.
3 Grudge whoso will, but none deny,
4 So God be pleased, this live will I.
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1 Though that men do call it dotage,
2 Who loveth not wanteth courage;

3 And whosoever may love get,
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1 Lusty Youth should us ensue.
2 His merry heart shall sure all rue.
3 For whatsoever they do him tell,
4 It is not for him, we know it well.
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1 Though some saith that youth ruleth me,
2 I trust in age to tarry.
3 God and my right and my duty,
4 From them I shall never vary,
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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
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Withowt dyscord
And bothe acorde
Now let us be;
Bothe hartes alone
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Whoso that wyll all feattes optayne,
In love he must be withowt dysdayne,

For love enforyth all nobyle kynd
And dysdayne dyscorages all gentyl mynd
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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.
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Wherto shuld I expresse
My inward hevynes?
No myrth can make me fayn
Tyl that we mete agayne.
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