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,

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 sake,

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.

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.