The lover complayneth the unkindnes of his love

My lute, adieu! perform the last

Labour that thou and I shall waste,

And end that I have now begun;

For 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 sing, or sigh, or moan,

No, no, my lute! for I have done.

The rock doth 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, thorough loves shot.

By whom, unkind, thou hast them won;

Think not he hath his vow forgot,

Although my lute and I have done.

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain,

That mak'st but game of earnest payne.

Trow not alone under the sun,

Unquit the cause thy lovers plaine,

Although my lute and I have done.

May chance thee lye withred and old,

In winter nights that are so cold,

Playning in vain unto the moon;

Thy wishes then dare not be told:

Care then who list! for I have done.

And then may chaunce thee to repent

The time that thou hast lost and spent,

To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon;

Then shall 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 I begun;

Now is this song both sung and past:

My lute! be still, for I have done.