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 |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
1. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
2. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
3. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
4. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. | XXI.
|
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
The Works of Thomas Campion | ||
461
XXI.
[Whether men doe laugh or weepe]
Whether men doe laugh or weepe,
Whether they doe wake or sleepe,
Whether they die yoong or olde,
Whether they feele heate or colde,
There is, underneath the sunne,
Nothing in true earnest done.
Whether they doe wake or sleepe,
Whether they die yoong or olde,
Whether they feele heate or colde,
There is, underneath the sunne,
Nothing in true earnest done.
All our pride is but a jest;
None are worst, and none are best;
Griefe, and joy, and hope, and feare
Play their Pageants every where:
Vaine opinion all doth sway,
And the world is but a play.
None are worst, and none are best;
Griefe, and joy, and hope, and feare
Play their Pageants every where:
Vaine opinion all doth sway,
And the world is but a play.
Powers above in cloudes doe sit,
Mocking our poore apish wit
That so lamely, with such state,
Their high glorie imitate:
No ill can be felt but paine,
And that happie men disdaine.
Mocking our poore apish wit
That so lamely, with such state,
Their high glorie imitate:
No ill can be felt but paine,
And that happie men disdaine.
The Works of Thomas Campion | ||