Sir Thomas Wyatt had a dream
The Lady held his heart
And with her lips would seal their love
And kisses sweet impart
But he was wakened from this dream
By lust and royal sin
No more to pick the Queen Anne's Lace
No more to woo or win
She fled from him with fickle pride
And, dreamless, he did cry
As wicked webs in court did cause
His flower lost to die