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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