Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/101

 SIR THOMAS WYATT

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 on earnest pain:

Think not alone under the sun Unquit to cause thy lover's plain,

Although my lute and I have done.

Perchance thec lie withered 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 1 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 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.

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