Poem by Thomas Wyatt

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 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. 

1. Since so Ye Please
2. In Spain
3. Stand Whoso List
4. Of the Mean and Sure Estate
5. My Galley, Charged With Forgetfulness

Print

1585 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version