My lute wake up! and play the last
 Hard work that you and I shall waste,
   And end that which I will have sung--
 For when this song is done and past,
   My lute be still, for I have done.

 As to be heard where ear is none,
 As lead to grave in that rich 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 harsh and sore
 Set back the waves that reach the shore
   As she my suit and love does shun;
 So that I am past hope or cure,
   And thus my lute and I have done.

 Proud of the spoil that you have got
 Of pure and plain hearts through Love's shot,
   By whom, not kind, you have them won,
 Think not he has his bow not got,
   Although my lute and I have done.

 Pay back shall fall on your scorn's reign
 Who makes a game of heart-felt pain.
   Think not your sole self in the sun
 Is leave to cause who loves you to plain,
   From that my lute and I have done.

 One day you may lie shrunk and old
 In year's end nights that are so cold,
   With cries in vain to that cold moon;
 What wish you then dare not be told--
   Care then who will, for I have done.

 And then may chance to rue and rent
 The time that you have lost and spent
   To cause who loves you sigh and swoon;
 Then you shall know good looks are lent,
   And wish and want as I have done.

 Now cease, my lute--this is the last
 Hard work that you and I shall waste,
   And end that which we have now sung.
 Now is this song is both sung and past,
   My lute be still, for I have done.

                                -- Sir Tom Watt

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