Although Wyatt was our first sonnet writer, some of his poems which are not sonnets are much more musical, especially some he wrote for music.  Perhaps best of all you will like his satire Of the mean and sure estate.  A satire is a poem which holds up to scorn and ridicule wickedness, folly, or stupidity.  It is the sword of literature, and often its edge was keen, its point sharp.

    “My mother’s maids when they do sew and spin,
    They sing a song made of the fieldish mouse;
    That for because her livelod* was but thin
    Would needs go see her townish sister’s house.

Livelihood. . . . . . . .  ‘My sister,’ quoth she, ’hath a living good, And hence from me she dwelleth not a mile, In cold and storm she lieth warm and dry In bed of down.  The dirt doth not defile Her tender foot; she labours not as I. Richly she feeds, and at the rich man’s cost; And for her meat she need not crave nor cry.  By sea, by land, of delicates the most, Her caterer seeks, and spareth for no peril.  She feeds on boil meat, bake meat and roast, And hath, therefore, no whit of charge or travail.’

Delicacies. . . . . . . .  So forth she goes, trusting of all this wealth With her sister her part so for to shape, That if she might there keep herself in health, To live a Lady, while her life do last.  And to the door now is she come by stealth, And with her foot anon she scrapes full fast.  Th’ other for fear durst not well scarce appear, Of every noise so was the wretch aghast.  At last she asked softly who was there; And in her language as well as she could, ‘Peep,’ quoth the other, ‘sister, I am here.’  ‘Peace,’ quoth the town mouse, ‘why speaketh thou so loud?’ But by the hand she took her fair and well.  ‘Welcome,’ quoth she, ‘my sister by the Rood.’  She feasted her that joy it was to tell The fare they had, they drank the wine so clear; And as to purpose now and then it fell, So cheered her with, ‘How, sister, what cheer.’  Amid this joy befell a sorry chance, That welladay, the stranger bought full dear The fare she had.  For as she looked ascance, Under a stool she spied two flaming eyes, In a round head, with sharp ears.  In France Was never mouse so feared, for the unwise Had not ere seen such beast before.  Yet had nature taught her after her guise To know her foe, and dread him evermore.  The town mouse fled, she knew whither to go; The other had no shift, but wonders sore, Fear’d of her life!  At home she wished her tho’; And to the door, alas! as she did skip (The heaven it would, lo, and eke her chance was so) At the threshold her sill foot did trip; And ere she might recover it again, The traitor Cat had caught her by the hip And made her there against her will remain, That had forgot her poor surety and rest, For seeming wealth, wherein she thought to reign.”

That is not the end of the poem.  Wyatt points the moral.  “Alas,” he says, “how men do seek the best and find the worst.”  “Although thy head were hooped with gold,” thou canst not rid thyself of care.  Content thyself, then, with what is allotted thee and use it well.