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Blame not my lute.
The soote season
With how sad steps, O Moon
When May is in his prime
Come live with me
Like as a ship
The wrathful winter
The pedlar's song .
Jog on, jog on .
Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Under the greenwood tree
When icicles hang by the wall
Go, soul, the body's guest
Birds in spring
Sweet rose !
0 day most calm, most bright
See the chariot at hand.
You meaner beauties of the night
Sweet bird! that sing'st away.
The shepherd's life
Fair daffodils
Sweet country life .
The breath of great-eyed kine.
Christmas time
The wenches with their wassail bowls
I with my angle would rejoice
Go, lovely rose.
My mind to me a kingdom is

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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,

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 !

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Blame but thyself that hast misdone,

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

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 !


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The sootel season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale :

i Sweet.

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