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 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 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

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 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.