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 care 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, through 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 shal: fall on thy disdain,
That mak'st but game on earnest pain ;
Think not alone, under the sun,
Unquit to cause thy Lover's pain,
Although my Lute and I have done.
May chanced thee lie wither'd, old,
In 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 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 my 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.
Your looks so often cast,
Your eyes so friendly roll'd,
Your sight fixed so fast,
Always one to behold;
Though hide it fain ye would,
It plainly doth declare,
Who hath your heart in hold,
And where good-will ye bear.
Fain would ye find a cloke
Your burning fire to hide,
Yet both the flame and smoke
Breaks out on every side.
Ye cannot Love so guide,
That it no issue win:
Abroad needs must it glide,
That burns so hot within.
My heart I gave thee not to do it pain,
But to preserve, lo! it to thee was taken;
I served thee not that I should be forsaken,
But that I should receive reward again:
I was content thy servant to remain,
And not to be repaid on this fashion.
Now, since in thee there is no other reason,
Displease thee not if that I do refrain,
Unsatiate of my woe and thy desire;
Assured by craft for to excuse thy fault.
But since it pleaseth thee to feign default,
Farewell, I say, departing from the fire.
For he that doth believe bearing in hand,
Ploweth in the water, and soweth in the sand.
If amorous faith, or if an heart unfeign'd;
If sweet langour, a great lovely desire;
If honest will, kindled in gentle fire;
If long error in a blind maze chain'd;
If in my visage each thought distain'd;
Or if my sparkling voice, lower or higher,
Which fear and shame so woefully doth tire;
If pale colour, which Love, alas! hath stain'd;
If to have other than myself more dear;
If wailing or sighing continually,
With sorrowful anger feeding busily;
If burned far off, and if freezing near,—
Are cause that I by love myself destroy,
Yours is the fault, and mine the great annoy.
A PRAISE OF HIS LOVE, WHEREIN HE REPROVETH THEM THAT COMPARE THEIR LADIES WITH HIS.
Give place, ye lovers, here before,
That spent your bostes and bragges in vain;
My ladies bewty passeth more
The best of yours, I dare well sayen,
Than doth the sun the candle light,
Or brightest day the darkest night.
And thereto hath a troth as just
As had Penelope the fairc;
For what she sayth, ye may it trust
As by it writing sealled were:
And virtues hath she many moe
Than I with pen have skill to showe.
I could reherse, if that I would,
The whole effect of Nature's plaint, -
When she had lost the perfite mould
The like to whom she could not paint;
With wringyng hands how did she cry,
And what she said, I know it, I
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