Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/90

 38. 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.