Songs, Poems, and Letters of the Tudor King
Henry VIII (1491–1547), King of England from 1509, is remembered chiefly for his six marriages and the English Reformation, but he was also a musician, poet, and composer of considerable accomplishment. His songs and poems reflect the courtly culture of early Tudor England — their subjects are love, companionship, loyalty, and the pleasures of youth.
The texts here are drawn from public domain transcriptions of the king's literary works, preserved in various Tudor manuscripts and early printed sources.
Pastyme With Good Companye
Pastyme with good companye
I love and shall untyll I dye;
Grugge who lust, but noon denye;
So god be plecyd, thus leve woll I;
For my pastaunce
Hunte, syng and daunce;
My hert ys sett
All godely sport
For my cumfort:
Who shall me lett?
Yowth must have sum dalyaunce,
Of good or yll some pastaunce;
Companye my thynckyth then best
All thoftes and fancys to dygest.
For idelnes
Ys cheff mastres
Of vices all;
Than who can say
But myrth and play
Ys best of all?
Cumpany with honeste
Ys vertu, vices to flee;
Cumpany ys gode and yll,
But every man hath hys frewyll.
The best insew,
The worst eschew,
My mynde shall be;
Vertu to use,
Vyce to reffuse,
Thus schall I use me.
Grene Growith The Holy
Grene growith the holy,
So doth the ive,
Though wynter blastys blow never so hye, Grene growith the holy.
As the holy growith grene
And never chaungyth hew,
So I am, ever hath bene,
Unto my lady trew.
Grene growith the holy,
So doth the ive,
Though wynter blastys blow never so hye, Grene growith the holy.
As the holy grouth grene
With ive all alone
When flowerys cannot be sene,
And grenewode levys be gone.
Grene growith the holy,
So doth the ive,
Though wynter blastys blow never so hye, Grene growith the holy.
Now unto my lady
Promyse to her I make,
Frome all other only
To her I me betake.
Grene growith the holy,
So doth the ive,
Though wynter blastys blow never so hye, Grene growith the holy.
Adew, myne owne lady,
Adew, my specyall,
Who hath my hart trewly,
Be sure, and ever shall.
Grene growith the holy,
So doth the ive,
Though wynter blastys blow never so hye, Grene growith the holy.
If Love Now Reynyd
If love now reynyd as it hath bene
And war rewardit as it hath sene,
Nobyll men then wold suer enserch
All ways wherby thay myght it rech; But envy reynyth with such dysdayne,
And causith lovers owtwardly to refrayne, Which puttes them to more and more
Inwardly most grevous and sore; The faut in whome I cannot sett;
But let them tell which love doth gett.
To lovers I put now suer this cace --
Which of ther loves doth get them grace?
And unto them which doth it know
Better than do I, I thynk it so.
The Tyme Of Youthe
The tyme of youthe is to be spent but vice in it shuld be forfent
Pastymes ther be I nought trewlye.
Whych one may use. and uice denye.
And they be plesant to god and man.
Those shuld we couit wyn who can.
As featys of armys. and suche other.
Wherby actyuenesse oon may vtter.
Comparysons in them may lawfully be sett.
For therby corage is suerly owt fet.
Vertue it is. then youth for to spend.
In goode dysporttys whych it dothe fend.
Though Sum Saith That Yough Rulyth Me
Though sum saith that yough rulyth me,
I trust in age to tarry;
God and my ryght and my dewtye,
Frome them I shall never vary;
Though sum say that yough rulyth me.
I pray you all that aged be,
How well dyd ye your yough carry?
I thynk sum wars of yche degre;
Therin a wager lay dar I:
Though sum sayth that yough rulyth me.
Pastymes of yough sumtyme among,
None can sey but necessary;
I hurt no man, I do no wrong;
I love trew wher I dyd mary:
Thow sum saith that yough rulyth me.
Then sone dyscusse that hens we must;
Pray we to God and Seynt Mary
That all amend; and here an end,
Thus sayth the kyng, the eigth Harry:
Though sum saith that yough rulyth me.
I trust in age to tarry:
God and my ryght and my dewtye,
Frome them shall I never vary:
Though sum say that yough rulyth me.
Thow That Men Do Call It Dotage
Thow that men do call it dotage,
Who lovyth not wantith corage.
And whosoever may love gete,
From Venus sure he must it fette; Or elles from her which is her hayre;
And she to hym most seme most fayre.
Wyth ee and mynd doth both agre,
There is no bote: ther must it be.
The ee doth loke and represent;
But mynd afformyth with full consent.
Thus am I fyxed withowt gruge,
Myne ey with hart doth me so juge.
Love maynteynyth all noble courage;
Who love dysdaynyth ys all of the village.
Soch lovers though thay take payne
It were pete thay shuld optayne; For often tymes wher they do sewe
Thay hynder lovers that wolde be trew.
For whoso lovith shuld love butt oone;
Chaunge who so wyll, I wyll be none.
Lusti Yough Shuld Us Ensue
Lusti yough shuld us ensue,
Hys mery hart shall sure all rew.
For whatsoever they do hym tell,
It ys not for hym we know yt well.
For they wold have hym hys Libertye refrayne And all mery companye for to dysdayne; But I wyll not so whatsoever they say,
But follow hys mynd in all that we may.
How shuld yough hymselfe best use
But all dysdaynares for to refuse?
Yough has as chef assurans,
Honest myrth with virtus pastance.
For in them consisteth gret honor,
Though that dysdaynars wold therin put error, For they do sew to get them grace All only reches to purchase.
With goode order, councell and equite,
Goode Lord, graunt us our mancyon to be!
For withowt ther goode gydaunce
Yough shuld fall in grett myschaunce.
For yough ys frayle and prompt to doo,
As well vices as virtuus to ensew;
Wherefor by thes he must be gydyd
And vertuus pastaunce must be theryn usyd.
Now unto God thys prayer we make,
That this rude play may well be take,
And that we may ower fauttes amend,
An blysse opteyne at ower last end. Amen.
O My Hart!
O my hart and o my hart my hart it is so sore
sens I must nedys from my loue depart and know no cause wherefore.
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.
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.
Whoso That Wyll All Feattes Optayne
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.
Wherefor to love and be not loved
Is wors then deth? Let it be proved!
Love encoragith and makyth on bold;
Dysdayne abattyth and makith hym colde.
Love ys gevyn to God and man;
To woman also, I thynk, the same.
But dysdayne ys vice and shuld be refused; Yet never the lesse it ys to moch used.
Whoso that wyll all feattes optayne,
In love he must be withowt dysdayne,
Grett pyte it ware, love for to compell
With dysdayne both falce and subtell.
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!
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.
I make you fast and sure;
It ys to me gret payne
Thus longe to endure,
Tyll that we mete agayne.
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
But condyscend;
Yf contrarye,
What remedy?
God yt amen.
Departure Is My Chef Payne
Departure is my chef payne;
I trust ryght wel of retorn agane.
Whoso That Wyll For Grace Sew
Whoso that wyll for grace sew,
Hys entent must nedys be trew,
And love her in hart and dede,
Els it war pyte that he shuld spede;
Many oone sayth that love ys yll,
But those be thay which can no skyll:
Or else because they may not opteyne,
They wold that other shuld yt dysdayne;
But love us a thyng gevyn by God;
In that therfor can be non odde,
But perfite in dede and betwene two.
Wherfor, then, shuld we yt excho?
Alac, Alac, What Shall I Do
Alac alac what shall I do.
for care is cast in to my hart.
And trew loue lokked therto.
It Is To Me A Ryght Gret Joy
It ys to me a ryght gret ioy,
Free from daunger and annoye.
Colophon
This edition of the literary works of Henry VIII reproduces texts from public domain transcriptions of Tudor manuscripts. Henry VIII was among the most cultured monarchs of his age, an accomplished musician and poet whose compositions remain part of the English choral and literary heritage.
Compiled and formatted for the Good Work Library by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026.
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