Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain,
That mak'st but game on earnest pain :
Think not alone under the sun
Unquit1 to cause thy lovers plain,2
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!
It is a grievous smart
To suffer pain and sorrow;
But most grieveth my heart
'He laid his faith to borrow; 3
And falsehood hath his faith and troth,
And he forsworn by many an oath.
All ye lovers, perdie !4
Hath cause to blame his deed,
Which shall example be
To let you of your speed.
Let never, never, woman again
Trust to such words as man may feign!
For I, unto my cost,
Am warning to you all
That they whom you trust most
Soonest deceive you shall.
But complaint cannot redress
Of my great grief the great excess.
Farewell, all my welfare!
My shoe is trod awry:
Now may I cark and care,
To sing lullaby! lullaby!
Alas, what shall I do thereto?
There is no shift to help me now!
Who made it such offence
To love, for love, again?
God wot that my pretence
Was but to ease his pain!
For I had ruth to see his woe;
Alas, more fool, why did I so?
For he from me is gone,
And makes thereat a game;
And hath left me alone
To suffer sorrow and shame.
Alas, he is unkind, doubtless,
To leave me thus all comfortless!
BLAME NOT MY LUTE.
Blame not my Lute! For he must sound
Of this, or that, as liketh me;
For lack of wit the Lute is bound
To give such tunes as pleaseth me. Though my songs be somewhat strange, And speak such words as touch thy change, Blame not my Lute!...
My Lute and strings may not deny,
But as I strike they must obey.
Break not them then so wrongfully,
But wreak thyself some other way;
And, though the songs which I indite
Do quit1 thy change with rightful spite,
Blame not my Lute!
Spite asketh spite, and changing change;
And falsèd faith must needs be known;
The fault so great, the case so strange,
Of right it must abroad be blown :
Then, since that, by thine own desert,
My songs do tell how true thou art,
Blame not my Lute!...
Farewell! Unknown for though thou break
My strings1 in spite, with great disdain;
Yet I have found out, for thy sake,
Strings for to string my Lute again :
And if, perchance, this sely2 rhyme
Do make thee blush at any time,
Blame not my Lute!
Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant ;
My great travail, so gladly spent,
Forget not yet!
Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know; since whan,
The suit, the service, none tell can;
Forget not yet!
Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in delays,
Forget not yet!
Forget not! oh, forget not this,
How long ago hath been, and is,
The mind that never meant amiss;
Forget not yet!
Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved ;
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved;
Forget not this!
Tangled I was in Lovès snare,
Oppressed with pain, torment with care,
Of grief right sure, of joy full bare,
Clean in despair by cruelty :
But ha ha! ha! full well is me,
For I am now at liberty.
The woful days so full of pain,
The weary night all spent in vain,
The labour lost for so small gain,
To write them all it will not be :
But ha ha ha! full well is me,
For I am now at liberty.
With feigned words which were but wind,
To long delays I was assigned;
Her wily looks my wits did blind;
Thus as she would I did agree:
But ha ha ha! full well is me,
For I am now at liberty.
Was never bird tangled in lime
That brake away in better time
Than I, that rotten boughs did climb,
And had no hurt, but scapèd free :
Now ha ha! ha! full well is me,
For I am now at liberty.
HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY,
THE family of the Howards claimed descent from a certain Margaret Mowbray, great-great-grandaughter of Edward I. The Duke of Norfolk, grandfather of the poet, commanded the English forces at Flodden in 1513; and his son, also Duke of Norfolk, held a similar command in the army which Henry VIII, sent against his Scottish nephew James V. in 1542. The poet's mother, Elizabeth Stafford, daughter of the Duke of Buckingham, was the friend and patroness of the poet Skelton; and it was apparently for her amusement that, in his old age, Skelton wrote the Garland of Laurel, his longest, though by no means his best poem. Henry, Earl of Surrey, was born at Framlingham, in Suffolk, about 1517. He was educated at Oxford, in company with Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, a son of Henry VIII.; and these young noblemen grew up in brotherly friendship. The
Farewell! Unknown for though thou break
My strings1 in spite, with great disdain; Yet I have found out, for thy sake,
Strings for to string my Lute again :
And if, perchance, this sely 2 rhyme
Do make thee blush at any time,
Blame not my Lute!
Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant ;
My great travail, so gladly spent,
Forget not yet!
Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know; since whan,
The suit, the service, none tell can;
Forget not yet!
Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in delays,
Forget not yet!
Forget not! oh, forget not this,
How long ago hath been, and is,
The mind that never meant amiss;
Forget not yet!
Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved;
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved;
Forget not this!
Tangled I was in Lovès snare,
Oppressed with pain, torment with care,
Of grief right sure, of joy full bare,
Clean in despair by cruelty :
But ha ha ha! full well is me,
For I am now at liberty.
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