Classic Poem

CXCVIII

My sweet, alas, forget me not
That am your own full sure possessed;
And for my part, as well ye wot,
I cannot swerve from my behest.
Since that my life lieth in your lot,
At this my poor and just request
Forget me not.

Yet wot how sure that I am tried,
My meaning clean, devoid of blot.
Yours is the proof: ye have me tried
And in me, sweet, ye found no spot.
If all my wealth and health is the good,
That of my life doth knit the knot,
Forget me not.

For yours I am and will be still
Although daily ye see me not.
Seek for to save that ye may spill
Since of my life ye hold the shot.
Then grant me this for my goodwill,
Which is but right, as God it wot:
Forget me not.

Consider how I am your thrall
To serve you both in cold and hot.
My fault's for thinking naught at all,
In prison strong though I should rot.
Then in your ears let pity fall
And, lest I perish in your lot,
Forget me not.