The Works of Thomas Campion Complete Songs, Masques, and Treatises with a Selection of the Latin Verse: Edited with an introduction and notes by Walter R. Davis |
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 | The Works of Thomas Campion |  |
187
XIX.
[Her fayre inflaming eyes]
Her fayre inflaming eyes,
Chiefe authors of my cares,
I prai'd in humblest wise
With grace to view my teares:
They beheld me broad awake,
But, alasse, no ruth would take.
Chiefe authors of my cares,
I prai'd in humblest wise
With grace to view my teares:
They beheld me broad awake,
But, alasse, no ruth would take.
Her lips with kisses rich,
And words of fayre delight,
I fayrely did beseech
To pitty my sad plight:
But a voyce from them brake forth
As a whirle-winde from the North.
And words of fayre delight,
I fayrely did beseech
To pitty my sad plight:
But a voyce from them brake forth
As a whirle-winde from the North.
Then to her hands I fled,
That can give heart and all;
To them I long did plead,
And loud for pitty call:
But, alas, they put mee off
With a touch worse then a scoffe.
That can give heart and all;
To them I long did plead,
And loud for pitty call:
But, alas, they put mee off
With a touch worse then a scoffe.
So backe I straight return'd,
And at her breast I knock'd;
Where long in vaine I mourn'd,
Her heart so fast was lock'd:
Not a word could passage finde,
For a Rocke inclos'd her minde.
And at her breast I knock'd;
Where long in vaine I mourn'd,
Her heart so fast was lock'd:
Not a word could passage finde,
For a Rocke inclos'd her minde.
Then downe my pray'rs made way
To those most comely parts
That make her flye or stay,
As they affect deserts:
But her angry feete, thus mov'd,
Fled with all the parts I lov'd.
To those most comely parts
That make her flye or stay,
As they affect deserts:
But her angry feete, thus mov'd,
Fled with all the parts I lov'd.
Yet fled they not so fast
As her enraged minde:
Still did I after haste,
Still was I left behinde,
Till I found 'twas to no end
With a Spirit to contend.
As her enraged minde:
Still did I after haste,
Still was I left behinde,
Till I found 'twas to no end
With a Spirit to contend.
| The Works of Thomas Campion | |