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. 

May chance thee lie wither'd 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 has 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.