My labor 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 sigh or sing or moan? 
No, no, my lute, for 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.

Vengance shall fall on thy disdain 
That makest but game on earnest pain; 
Think not alone under the sun 
Unquit to cause thy lovers 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 spnt 
To cause thy lovers 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 
Labor that thou and I shall waste 
And ended is that we begun. 
Now is the song both sung and past; 
My lute, be still, for I have done.