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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 my change,

Blame not my Lute !

My Lute, alas! doth not offend,

Though that perforce he must agree To sound such tunes as I intend,

To sing to them that heareth me ; Then though my songs be somewhat plain, And toucheth some that use to feign, a

Blame not my Lute !

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 quit thy change with rightful spite,

Blame not my Lute !

Spite asketh spite, and changing change,

And falsed faith, must needs be known ; The faults 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 !

Blame but thyself that hast misdone,

And well deserved to have blame ;
Change thou thy way, so evil begone,

And then my Lute shall sound that same ;
But if till then my fingers play,
By thy desert their wonted way,

Blame not my Lute !

Farewell! unknown; for though thou break

My strings in spite with great disdain,
Yet have I found out for thy sal

Strings for to string my Lute again :
And if perchance this silly rhyme,
Do make thee blush at any time,
Blame not my Lute !

SIR THOMAS WYAT.

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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 mate hath told her tale :

Sweet.

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