SIR THOMAS WYATT

��38. To His Lute

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 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 of earnest pain:

Trow not alone under the sun Unquit to cause thy lover's plain,

Although my lute and I have done.

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