My Lute Awake!

THE LOVER COMPLAINETH THE UNKINDNESS OF HIS LOVE.

My lute awake, perform the last Labour, that thou and I shall waste, And end that I have now begun : And 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.

May chance thee lie withered 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.