My Lute and I

At most mischief
I suffer grief;
For of relief
Since I have none,
My lute and I
Continually
Shall us apply
To sigh and moan.

Nought may prevail
To weep or wail;
Pity doth fail
In you, alas!
Mourning or moan,
Complaint or none,
It is all one,
As in this case.

For cruelty
That most can be
Hath sovereignty
Within your heart;
Which maketh bare
All my welfare:
Nought do ye care
How sore I smart.

No tiger's heart
Is so pervert,
Without desert
To wreak his ire;
And you me kill
For my goodwill:
Lo, how I spill
For my desire!

There is no love
That can ye move,
And I can prove
None other way;
Therefore I must
Restrain my lust,
Banish my trust
And wealth away.

Thus in mischief
I suffer grief,
For of relief
Since I have none,
My lute and I
Continually
Shall us apply
To sigh and moan.
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