To His Lute
Sir Thomas Wyatt
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 affectiòn;
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.
