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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 sung 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 sigh or sing 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 affection;
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 on earnest
pain.
Think not alone under the sun
Unquit to
cause thy lovers plain,
Although my lute and I have
done.
Perchance thee lie wethered 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 hast lost
and spent
To cause thy lovers 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.
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