He hardly printed a thing. The poems went round in handwritten books, copied by friends into blank leaves at the back of other people's volumes, which is how most verse travelled then; he died of a fever at Clifton Maybank in Dorset in 1542, about thirty-nine, and the printed Wyatt didn't exist yet.
Fifteen years later Tottel put him in a miscellany, and the editor — nobody's villain, just a man with an ear for smoothness — tidied the limping lines into regular metre. Syllables added, stresses shoved back into place. So for a few centuries people read a Wyatt who scanned, and only later, when scholars went back to the manuscripts, did the rougher one come back, stumbling where he meant to stumble. I've got the profile portrait in mind, the round panel, forked beard, red doublet under black — cracked all over now. Both versions are him, I suppose; one was smoothed.
He also Englished the seven Penitential Psalms, which were the standard psalms of repentance in the Latin West for centuries, and he did it while serving a court that had twice put him in the Tower. David pleading for mercy from a king's favourite: as far as we know he never said what he meant by it.
Those Holbein drawings of the court at Windsor were working sheets, not finished things — chalk on paper primed pink so the flesh tone was already there and he only had to find the edges. Made to be held at arm's length, close, with the sitter in front of him. The roughness in them is the same kind as Wyatt's limping line, I think.