Sir Thomas Wyatt

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 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.