My lute, awake! perfourme the last
Labor that thou and I shall wast
And end that I have now begon;
For when this song is sung and past,
My lute be still, for I have done.
As to be herd where ere is none,
As lede to grave in marbill stone,
My song may perse her hert as sone,
Should we then sigh, or syng, or mone?
No, no, my lute, for I have done.
The Rokkes do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continuelly
As she my suyte and affection,
So that I ame past remedy,
Whereby my lute and I have done.
Prowd of the spoyll that thou hast gott
Of simple hertes thorough loves shot,
By whome, vnkynd, thou hast theim wone,
Thinck not he haith his bow forgot,
All tho my lute and I have done.
Vengeaunce shall fall on thy disdain
That makest but game on ernest pain;
Thinck not alone vnder the sonne
Vnquyt to cause thy lovers plain,
All tho my lute and I have done
Perchaunce the lye wethered and old,
The wynter nyghtes that are so cold,
Playnyng in vain vnto the mone;
Thy wisshes then dare not be told;
Care then who lyst, for I have done.
And then may chaunce the to repent
The tyme that thou hast lost and spent,
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoune;
Then shalt thou knowe beaultie but lent
And wisshe and want as I have done.
Now cesse, my lute; this is the last
Labour that thou and I shall wast,
And ended is that we begon;
Now is this song boeth sung and past;
My lute, be still, for I have done.