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.
HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY
1516-47
39. Description of Spring
Wherein each thing renews, save only the Lover
The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale:
The nightingale with feathers new she sings;
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs:
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings;
The fishes flete with new repairèd scale.
39. make] mate.
