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.