Thomas Wyatt - The Lover Complaineth the Unkindness of His Love lyrics

My lute, awake, perform the last Labour, that thou and I shall waste; And end that I have now begun: And 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. The rocks do 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 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. Vengeance 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. May chance thee lie withered and old In 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 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 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.