thin array, after a pleasant guise,
    When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
    And she me caught in her arms long and small,
Therewith all sweetly did me kiss,
And softly said, ‘Dear heart, how like you this?’
It was no dream; I lay broad waking:
    But all is turned, thorough my gentleness,
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
    And I have leave to go, of her goodness;
    And she also to use new-fangleness.
But since that I unkindely so am served,
‘How like you this?’ —what hath she now deserved?

46   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 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 rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
     As she my suit and affectiàon;
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 on earnest pain:
     Think not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lover’s plain,
     Although my lute and I have done.

Perchance thee 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! 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.