SIR THOMAS WYATT
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 on earnest pain:
Think not alone under the sun Unquit to cause thy lover's plain,
Although my lute and I have done.
Perchance thec 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 1 for I have done.
And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast 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.
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