To His Lute

My lute, awake! perform the last

Labour that thou and I shall waste,

And end that I have now begun;

For when this song is said and past,

My lute, be still, for I have done.

As to be heard where ear is none,

As lead to grave in marble stone,

My song may pierce her heart as soon:

Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan?

No, no, my lute! for I have done.

The rocks do not so cruelly

Repulse the waves continually,

As she my suit and affectión;

So that I am past remedy:

Whereby my lute and I have done.

Proud of the spoil that thou hast got

Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot,

By whom, unkind, thou hast them won;

Think not he hath his bow forgot,

Although my lute and I have done.

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain,

That makest but game of earnest pain:

Trow not alone under the sun

Unquit to cause thy lover's plain,

Although my lute and I have done.

May chance thee lie wither'd and old

The winter nights that are so cold,

Plaining in vain unto the moon:

Thy wishes then dare not be told:

Care then who list! for I have done.

And then may chance thee to repent

The time that thou has lost and spent

To cause thy lover's sigh and swoon:

Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,

And wish and want as I have done.

Now cease, my lute! this is the last

Labour that thou and I shall waste,

And ended is that we begun:

Now is this song both sung and past—

My lute, be still, for I have done.