The Works of Thomas Campion :: :: University of Virginia Library

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

Campion, Thomas (1567-1620)

SONGS AND POEMS

SONGS APPENDED TO SIDNEY'S ASTROPHEL AND STELLA

A BOOKE OF AYRES, 1601

TWO BOOKES OF AYRES.

Songs of Mourning: BEWAILING

THE THIRD AND FOURTH BOOKE OF AYRES:

OCCASIONAL POEMS

[Poems and Songs from the Masques]

TREATISES

DOUBTFUL POEMS

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SONGS AND POEMS
[_]

Square brackets denote editorial additions or emendations

SONGS APPENDED TO SIDNEY'S ASTROPHEL AND STELLA

CANTO PRIMO.

Harke, all you Ladies that doo sleepe:
The Fairie Queene Proserpina
Bids you awake, and pitie them that weepe:
You may doo in the darke
What the day doth forbid:
Feare not the doggs that barke,
Night will have all hid.

But if you let your Lovers mone,
The Fairie Queene Proserpina
Will send abroad hir Fairies everie one,
That shall pinch blacke and blew
Your white hands and faire armes,
That did not kindly rewe
Your Paramours harmes.

In myrtle arbours on the downes,
The Fairie Queene Proserpina,
This night by Moone shine leading merrie rounds,
Holds a watch with sweete Love;
Downe the dale, up the hill,
No plaints nor grieves may move
Their holy vigill.

All you that will hold watch with Love,
The Fairie Queene Proserpina
Will make you fairer than Dianas Dove;

Roses red, Lillies white,
And the cleere damaske hue,
Shall on your cheekes alight:
Love will adorne you.

All you that love, or lov'd before,
The Fairie Queene Proserpina
Bids you increase that loving humour more:
They that have not yet fed
On delight amorous,
She vowes that they shall lead
Apes in Avernus.

CANTO SECUNDO.

What faire pompe have I spide of glittering Ladies;
With locks sparckled abroad, and rosie Coronet
On their yvorie browes, trackt to the daintie thies
With roabs like Amazons, blew as Violet,
With gold Aglets adornd, some in a changeable
Pale, with spangs wavering, taught to be moveable.

Then those Knights that a farre off with dolorous viewing
Cast their eyes hetherward: loe, in an agonie,
All unbrac'd, crie aloud, their heavie state ruing:
Moyst cheekes with blubbering, painted as Ebonie
Blacke; their feltred haire torne with wrathfull hand:
And whiles astonied, starke in a maze they stand.

But hearke, what merry sound! what sodaine harmonie!
Looke, looke neere the grove where the Ladies doe tread
With their knights the measures waide by the melodie!
Wantons, whose travesing make men enamoured!
Now they faine an honor, now by the slender wast
He must lift hir aloft, and seale a kisse in hast.

Streight downe under a shadow for wearines they lie
With pleasant daliance, hand knit with arme in arme;
Now close, now set aloof, they gaze with an equall eie,
Changing kisses alike; streight with a false alarme,
Mocking kisses alike, powt with a lovely lip.
Thus drownd with jollities, their merry daies doe slip.

But stay! now I discerne they goe on a Pilgrimage
Toward Loves holy land, faire Paphos or Cyprus.
Such devotion is meete for a blithesome age;
With sweet youth it agrees well to be amorous.
Let olde angrie fathers lurke in an Hermitage:
Come, weele associate this jollie Pilgrimage!

CANTO TERTIO.

My Love bound me with a kisse
That I should no longer staie;
When I felt so sweete a blisse,
I had lesse power to passe away:
Alas, that women do not knowe,
Kisses make men loath to goe.

CANTO QUARTO.

Love whets the dullest wittes, his plagues be such;
But makes the wise, by pleasing, doat as much.
So wit is purchast by this dire disease:
Oh let me doat, so Love be bent to please.

CANTO QUINTO.

A daie, a night, an houre of sweete content
Is worth a world consum'd in fretfull care.
Unequall Gods, in your Arbitrement
To sort us daies whose sorrowes endles are!
And yet what were it? as a fading flower:
To swim in blisse a daie, a night, an hower.

What plague is greater than the griefe of minde?
The griefe of minde that eates in everie vaine,
In everie vaine that leaves such clods behind,
Such clods behind as breed such bitter paine,
So bitter paine that none shall ever finde
What plague is greater than the griefe of minde.

Doth sorrowe fret thy soule? o direfull spirit!
Doth pleasure feede thy heart? o blessed man!
Hast thou bin happie once? o heavie plight!
Are thy mishaps forepast? o happie than!
Or hast thou blisse in eld? o blisse too late!
But hast thou blisse in youth? o sweete estate!

Finis.

CONTENT.

A BOOKE OF AYRES,
[_]

Set foorth to be song to the Lute, Orpherian, and Base Violl, by Philip Rosseter Lutenist: And are to be solde at his house in Fleetstreete neere to the Gray-hound.

1601

TO THE RIGHT VERTUOUS AND WORTHY KNIGHT, SIR THOMAS MOUNSON.

I. [My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love]

My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,
And, though the sager sort our deedes reprove,
Let us not way them: heav'ns great lampes doe dive
Into their west, and strait againe revive,
But, soone as once set is our little light,
Then must we sleepe one ever-during night.

If all would lead their lives in love like mee,
Then bloudie swords and armour should not be,
No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleepes should move,
Unles alar'me came from the campe of love:
But fooles do live, and wast their little light,
And seeke with paine their ever-during night.

When timely death my life and fortune ends,
Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends,
But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come,
And with sweet pastimes grace my happie tombe;
And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light,
And crowne with love my ever-during night.

II. [Though you are yoong and I am olde]

Though you are yoong and I am olde,
Though your vaines hot and my bloud colde,
Though youth is moist and age is drie,
Yet embers live when flames doe die.

The tender graft is easely broke,
But who shall shake the sturdie Oke?
You are more fresh and faire then I,
Yet stubs doe live, when flowers doe die.

Thou that thy youth doest vainely boast,
Know buds are soonest nipt with frost;
Thinke that thy fortune still doth crie,
Thou foole, tomorrow thou must die.

III. [I care not for these Ladies]

I care not for these Ladies
That must be woode and praide,
Give me kind Amarillis
The wanton countrey maide;
Nature art disdaineth,
Her beautie is her owne;
Her when we court and kisse,
She cries, forsooth, let go:
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.

If I love Amarillis,
She gives me fruit and flowers,
But if we love these Ladies,
We must give golden showers;
Give them gold that sell love,
Give me the Nutbrowne lasse,
Who when we court and kisse,
She cries, forsooth, let go:
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.

These Ladies must have pillowes,
And beds by strangers wrought,
Give me a Bower of willowes,
Of mosse and leaves unbought,
And fresh Amarillis,
With milke and honie fed,
Who when we court and kisse,
She cries, forsooth, let go:
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.

IV. [Followe thy faire sunne, unhappy shaddowe]

Followe thy faire sunne, unhappy shaddowe:
Though thou be blacke as night,
And she made all of light,
Yet follow thy faire sunne, unhappie shaddowe.

Follow her whose light thy light depriveth:
Though here thou liv'st disgrac't,
And she in heaven is plac't,
Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth.

Follow those pure beames whose beautie burneth,
That so have scorched thee,
As thou still blacke must bee,
Til her kind beames thy black to brightnes turneth.

Follow her while yet her glorie shineth:
There comes a luckles night,
That will dim all her light;
And this the black unhappie shade devineth.

Follow still since so thy fates ordained:
The Sunne must have his shade,
Till both at once doe fade,
The Sun still prov'd, the shadow still disdained.

V. [My love hath vowd hee will forsake mee]

My love hath vowd hee will forsake mee,
And I am alreadie sped.
Far other promise he did make me
When he had my maidenhead.
If such danger be in playing,
And sport must to earnest turne,
I will go no more a-maying.

Had I foreseene what is ensued,
And what now with paine I prove,
Unhappie then I had eschewed
This unkind event of love:
Maides foreknow their own undooing,
But feare naught till all is done,
When a man alone is wooing.

Dissembling wretch, to gaine thy pleasure,
What didst thou not vow and sweare?
So didst thou rob me of the treasure
Which so long I held so deare;
Now thou prov'st to me a stranger,
Such is the vile guise of men
When a woman is in danger.

That hart is neerest to misfortune
That will trust a fained toong;
When flattring men our loves importune,
They entend us deepest wrong;
If this shame of loves betraying
But this once I cleanely shun,
I will go no more a-maying.

VI. [When to her lute Corrina sings]

When to her lute Corrina sings,
Her voice revives the leaden stringes,
And doth in highest noates appeare
As any challeng'd eccho cleere;
But when she doth of mourning speake,
Ev'n with her sighes the strings do breake.

And, as her lute doth live or die,
Led by her passion, so must I:
For when of pleasure she doth sing,
My thoughts enjoy a sodaine spring;
But if she doth of sorrow speake,
Ev'n from my hart the strings doe breake.

VII. [Turne backe, you wanton flyer]

Turne backe, you wanton flyer,
And answere my desire
With mutuall greeting;
Yet bende a little neerer,
True beauty stil shines cleerer
In closer meeting.
Harts with harts delighted
Should strive to be united,
Either others armes with armes enchayning:
Harts with a thought, rosie lips
With a kisse still entertaining.

What harvest halfe so sweete is
As still to reape the kisses
Growne ripe in sowing,
And straight to be receiver
Of that which thou art giver,
Rich in bestowing?
There's no strickt observing
Of times, or seasons changing,
There is ever one fresh spring abiding:
Then what we sow with our lips
Let us reape, loves gaines deviding.

VIII. [It fell on a sommers day]

It fell on a sommers day,
While sweete Bessie sleeping laie
In her bowre, on her bed,
Light with curtaines shadowed;
Jamy came, shee him spies,
Opning halfe her heavie eies.

Jamy stole in through the dore,
She lay slumbring as before;
Softly to her he drew neere,
She heard him, yet would not heare;
Bessie vow'd not to speake,
He resolv'd that dumpe to breake.

First a soft kisse he doth take,
She lay still, and would not wake;
Then his hands learn'd to woo,
She dreamp't not what he would doo,
But still slept, while he smild
To see love by sleepe beguild.

Jamy then began to play,
Bessie as one buried lay,
Gladly still through this sleight
Deceiv'd in her owne deceit;
And, since this traunce begoon,
She sleepes ev'rie afternoone.

IX. [The Sypres curten of the night is spread]

The Sypres curten of the night is spread,
And over all a silent dewe is cast.
The weaker cares by sleepe are conquered;
But I alone, with hidious griefe agast,
In spite of Morpheus charmes a watch doe keepe
Over mine eies, to banish carelesse sleepe.

Yet oft my trembling eyes through faintnes close,
And then the Mappe of hell before me stands,
Which Ghosts doe see, and I am one of those
Ordain'd to pine in sorrowes endles bands,
Since from my wretched soule all hopes are reft
And now no cause of life to me is left.

Griefe, ceaze my soule, for that will still endure
When my cras'd bodie is consum'd and gone;
Beare it to thy blacke denne, there keepe it sure,
Where thou ten thousand soules doest tyre upon:
Yet all doe not affoord such foode to thee
As this poore one, the worser part of mee.

X. [Follow your Saint, follow with accents sweet]

Follow your Saint, follow with accents sweet,
Haste you, sad noates, fall at her flying feete;
There, wrapt in cloud of sorrowe, pitie move,
And tell the ravisher of my soule I perish for her love.
But if she scorns my never-ceasing paine,
Then burst with sighing in her sight, and nere returne againe.

All that I soong still to her praise did tend,
Still she was first, still she my songs did end.
Yet she my love and Musicke both doeth flie,
The Musicke that her Eccho is, and beauties simpathie;
Then let my Noates pursue her scornefull flight:
It shall suffice that they were breath'd, and dyed, for her delight.

XI. [Faire, if you expect admiring]

Faire, if you expect admiring,
Sweet, if you provoke desiring,
Grace deere love with kinde requiting.
Fond, but if thy sight be blindnes,
False, if thou affect unkindnes,
Flie both love and loves delighting.
Then when hope is lost and love is scorned,
Ile bury my desires, and quench the fires that ever yet in vaine have burned.

Fates, if you rule lovers fortune,
Stars, if men your powers importune,
Yield reliefe by your relenting.
Time, if sorrow be not endles,
Hope made vaine, and pittie friendles,
Helpe to ease my long lamenting.
But if griefes remaine still unredressed,
I'le flie to her againe, and sue for pitie to renue my hopes distressed.

XII. [Thou art not faire, for all thy red and white]

Thou art not faire, for all thy red and white,
For all those rosie ornaments in thee;
Thou art not sweet, though made of meer delight,
Nor faire nor sweet, unlesse thou pitie mee.
I will not sooth thy fancies: thou shalt prove
That beauty is no beautie without love.

Yet love not me, nor seeke thou to allure
My thoughts with beautie, were it more devine;
Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,
I'le not be wrapt up in those armes of thine.
Now shew it, if thou be a woman right:
Embrace, and kisse, and love me, in despight.

XIII. [See where she flies enrag'd from me]

See where she flies enrag'd from me,
View her when she intends despite:
The winde is not more swift then shee,
Her furie mov'd such terror makes
As, to a fearfull guiltie sprite,
The voice of heav'ns huge thunder cracks.
But, when her appeased minde yeelds to delight,
All her thoughts are made of joyes,
Millions of delights inventing:
Other pleasures are but toies
To her beauties sweete contenting.

My fortune hangs upon her brow,
For, as she smiles or frownes on mee,
So must my blowne affections bow;
And her proude thoughts too well do find
With what unequall tyrannie
Her beauties doe command my mind.
Though, when her sad planet raignes, froward she bee,
She alone can pleasure move,
And displeasing sorrow banish:
May I but still hold her love,
Let all other comforts vanish.

XIV. [Blame not my cheeks, though pale with love they be]

Blame not my cheeks, though pale with love they be;
The kindly heate unto my heart is flowne,
To cherish it that is dismaid by thee,
Who art so cruell and unsteedfast growne:
For nature, cald for by distressed harts,
Neglects and quite forsakes the outward partes.

But they whose cheekes with careles blood are stain'd
Nurse not one sparke of love within their harts,
And, when they woe, they speake with passion fain'd,
For their fat love lyes in their outward parts:
But in their brests, where love his court should hold,
Poore Cupid sits and blowes his nailes for cold.

XV. [When the God of merrie love]

When the God of merrie love
As yet in his cradle lay,
Thus his wither'd nurse did say:
Thou a wanton boy wilt prove
To deceive the powers above;
For by thy continuall smiling
I see thy power of beguiling.

Therewith she the babe did kisse,
When a sodaine fire out came
From those burning lips of his,
That did her with love enflame;
But none would regard the same,
So that, to her daie of dying,
The old wretch liv'd ever crying.

XVI. [Mistris, since you so much desire]

Mistris, since you so much desire
To know the place of Cupids fire,
In your faire shrine that flame doth rest,
Yet never harbourd in your brest;
It bides not in your lips so sweete,
Nor where the rose and lillies meete,
But a little higher, but a little higher:
There, there, O there lies Cupids fire.

Even in those starrie pearcing eyes,
There Cupids sacred fire lyes;
Those eyes I strive not to enjoy,
For they have power to destroy;
Nor woe I for a smile, or kisse,
So meanely triumph's not my blisse;
But a little higher, but a little higher,
I climbe to crowne my chast desire.

XVII. [Your faire lookes enflame my desire]

Your faire lookes enflame my desire:
Quench it againe with love.
Stay, O strive not still to retire,
Doe not inhumane prove.
If love may perswade,
Loves pleasures, deere, denie not;
Heere is a silent grovie shade:
O tarrie then, and flie not.

Have I seaz'd my heavenly delight
In this unhaunted grove?
Time shall now her furie requite
With the revenge of love.
Then come, sweetest, come,
My lips with kisses gracing:
Here let us harbour all alone,
Die, die in sweete embracing.

Will you now so timely depart,
And not returne againe?
Your sight lends such life to my hart
That to depart is paine.
Feare yeelds no delay,
Securenes helpeth pleasure:
Then, till the time gives safer stay,
O farewell, my lives treasure!

XVIII. [The man of life upright]

The man of life upright,
Whose guiltlesse hart is free
From all dishonest deedes,
Or thought of vanitie,

The man whose silent dayes
In harmeles joyes are spent,
Whome hopes cannot delude,
Nor sorrow discontent,

That man needes neither towers
Nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vautes to flie
From thunders violence.

Hee onely can behold
With unafrighted eyes
The horrours of the deepe,
And terrours of the Skies.

Thus, scorning all the cares
That fate, or fortune brings,
He makes the heav'n his booke,
His wisedome heev'nly things,

Good thoughts his onely friendes,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober Inne,
And quiet Pilgrimage.

XIX. [Harke, al you ladies that do sleep]

Harke, al you ladies that do sleep:
the fayry queen Proserpina
Bids you awake and pitie them that weep;
you may doe in the darke
What the day doth forbid:
feare not the dogs that barke,
Night will have all hid.

But if you let your lovers mone,
the Fairie Queene Proserpina
Will send abroad her Fairies ev'rie one,
that shall pinch blacke and blew
Your white hands, and faire armes,
that did not kindly rue
Your Paramours harmes.

In Myrtle Arbours on the downes,
the Fairie Queene Proserpina,
This night by moone-shine leading merrie rounds,
holds a watch with sweet love;
Downe the dale, up the hill,
no plaints or groanes may move
Their holy vigill.

All you that will hold watch with love,
the Fairie Queene Proserpina
Will make you fairer then Diones dove;
Roses red, Lillies white,
And the cleare damaske hue,
shall on your cheekes alight:
Love will adorne you.

All you that love, or lov'd before,
the Fairie Queene Proserpina
Bids you encrease that loving humour more:
they that yet have not fed
On delight amorous,
she vowes that they shall lead
Apes in Avernus.

XX. [When thou must home to shades of under ground]

When thou must home to shades of under ground,
And there ariv'd, a newe admired guest,
The beauteous spirits do ingirt thee round,
White Iope, blith Hellen, and the rest,
To heare the stories of thy finisht love,
From that smoothe toong whose musicke hell can move:

Then wilt thou speake of banqueting delights,
Of masks and revels which sweete youth did make,
Of Turnies and great challenges of knights,
And all these triumphes for thy beauties sake:
When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murther me.

XXI.
Come, let us sound with melody the praises

Come, let us sound with melody the praises
Of the kings king, th'omnipotent creator,
Author of number, that hath all the world in
Harmonie framed.

Heav'n is his throne perpetually shining,
His devine power and glorie thence he thunders,
One in all, and all still in one abiding,
Both Father, and Sonne.

O sacred sprite, invisible, eternall,
Ev'ry where, yet unlimited, that all things
Canst in one moment penetrate, revive me,
O holy Spirit.

Rescue, O rescue me from earthly darknes,
Banish hence all these elementall objects,
Guide my soule that thirsts to the lively Fountaine
Of thy devinenes.

Cleanse my soule, O God, thy bespotted Image,
Altered with sinne so that heav'nly purenes
Cannot acknowledge me but in thy mercies,
O Father of grace.

But when once thy beames do remove my darknes,
O then I'le shine forth as an Angell of light,
And record, with more than an earthly voice, thy
Infinite honours.

FINIS.

TWO BOOKES OF AYRES.

THE FIRST Contayning Divine and Morall Songs: THE SECOND, Light Conceits of Lovers.
[_]

To be sung to the Lute and Viols, in two, three, and foure Parts: or by one Voyce to an INSTRUMENT.

Composed By Thomas Campian.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, BOTH in Birth and Vertue, FRANCIS, Earle of CUMBERLAND.

What Patron could I chuse, great Lord, but you?
Grave words your years may challenge as their owne,
And ev'ry note of Musicke is your due,
Whose House the Muses pallace I have knowne.

To love and cherish them, though it descends
With many honours more on you, in vaine
Preceding fame herein with you contends,
Who have both fed the Muses, and their trayne.

These Leaves I offer you, Devotion might
Her selfe lay open, reade them, or else heare
How gravely with their tunes they yeeld delight
To any vertuous, and not curious eare.
Such as they are accept them, Noble Lord;
If better, better could my zeale afford.

Your Honors, THOMAS CAMPIAN.

THE FIRST BOOKE

[Songs of 4. Parts.]

I. [Author of light, revive my dying spright]

Author of light, revive my dying spright,
Redeeme it from the snares of all-confounding night.
Lord, light me to thy blessed way:
For, blinde with worldly vaine desires, I wander as a stray.
Sunne and Moone, Starres and underlights I see,
But all their glorious beames are mists and darknes, being compar'd to thee.

Fountaine of health, my soules deepe wounds recure,
Sweet showres of pitty raine, wash my uncleannesse pure.
One drop of thy desired grace
The faint and fading hart can raise, and in joyes bosome place.
Sinne and Death, Hell and tempting Fiends may rage;
But God his owne will guard, and their sharp paines and griefe in time asswage.

II. [The man of life upright]

The man of life upright,
Whose chearfull minde is free
From waight of impious deedes,
And yoake of vanitee,

The man whose silent dayes
In harmelesse joyes are spent:
Whom hopes cannot delude,
Nor sorrowes discontent,

That man needes neyther towres,
Nor armour for defence:
Nor vaults his guilt to shrowd
From thunders violence;

Hee onely can behold
With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deepe,
And terrors of the Skies.

Thus, scorning all the cares
That fate or fortune brings,
His Booke the Heav'ns hee makes,
His wisedome heav'nly things.

Good thoughts his surest friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober Inne,
And quiet pilgrimage.

III. [Where are all thy beauties now, all harts enchayning?]

Where are all thy beauties now, all harts enchayning?
Whither are thy flatt'rers gone with all their fayning?
All fled; and thou alone still here remayning.

Thy rich state of twisted gold to Bayes is turned;
Cold as thou art, are thy loves that so much burned:
Who dye in flatt'rers armes are seldome mourned.

Yet, in spight of envie, this be still proclaymed,
That none worthyer then thy selfe thy worth hath blamed:
When their poore names are lost, thou shalt live famed.

When thy story, long time hence, shall be perused,
Let the blemish of thy rule be thus excused:
None ever liv'd more just, none more abused.

IV. [Out of my soules deapth to thee my cryes have sounded]

Out of my soules deapth to thee my cryes have sounded:
Let thine eares my plaints receive, on just feare grounded.
Lord, should'st thou weigh our faults, who's not confounded?

But with grace thou censur'st thine when they have erred,
Therefore shall thy blessed name be lov'd and feared:
Ev'n to thy throne my thoughts and eyes are reared.

Thee alone my hopes attend, on thee relying;
In thy sacred word I'le trust, to thee fast flying,
Long ere the Watch shall breake, the morne descrying.

In the mercies of our God who live secured,
May of full redemption rest in him assured;
Their sinne-sicke soules by him shall be recured.

V. [View mee, Lord, a worke of thine]

View mee, Lord, a worke of thine:
Shall I then lye drown'd in night?
Might thy grace in mee but shine,
I should seeme made all of light.

But my soule still surfets so
On the poysoned baytes of sinne,
That I strange and ugly growe,
All is darke and foule within.

Clense mee, Lord, that I may kneele
At thine Altar, pure and white:
They that once thy Mercies feele
Gaze no more on earths delight.

Worldly joyes like shadowes fade,
When the heav'nly light appeares;
But the cov'nants thou hast made,
Endlesse, know nor dayes, nor yeares.

In thy word, Lord, is my trust,
To thy mercies fast I flye;
Though I am but clay and dust,
Yet thy grace can lift me high.

VI. [Bravely deckt, come forth, bright day]

Bravely deckt, come forth, bright day,
Thine houres with Roses strew thy way,
As they well remember.
Thou receiv'd shalt be with feasts:
Come, chiefest of the British ghests,
Thou fift of November.
Thou with triumph shalt exceede
In the strictest ember;
For by thy returne the Lord records his blessed deede.

Britaines, frolicke at your bourd,
But first sing praises to the Lord
In your Congregations.
Hee preserv'd your state alone,
His loving grace hath made you one
Of his chosen Nations.
But this light must hallowed be
With your best Oblations;
Prayse the Lord, for onely great and mercifull is hee.

Death had enter'd in the gate,
And ruine was crept neare the State;
But heav'n all revealed.
Fi'ry Power hell did make,
Which, ready long the flame to take,
Lay in shade concealed.
God us helpt of his free grace,
None to him appealed;
For none was so bad to feare the treason or the place.

God his peacefull Monarch chose,
To him the mist he did disclose,
To him, and none other;
This hee did, O King, for thee,

That thou thine owne renowne might'st see,
Which no time can smother.
May blest Charles thy comfort be,
Firmer then his Brother:
May his heart the love of peace, and wisedome learne from thee.

VII. [To Musicke bent is my retyred minde]

To Musicke bent is my retyred minde,
And faine would I some song of pleasure sing:
But in vaine joyes no comfort now I finde:
From heav'nly thoughts all true delight doth spring.
Thy power, O God, thy mercies to record
Will sweeten ev'ry note, and ev'ry word.

All earthly pompe or beauty to expresse,
Is but to carve in snow, on waves to write.
Celestiall things, though men conceive them lesse,
Yet fullest are they in themselves of light:
Such beames they yeeld as know no meanes to dye:
Such heate they cast as lifts the Spirit high.

VIII. [Tune thy Musicke to thy hart]

Tune thy Musicke to thy hart,
Sing thy joy with thankes, and so thy sorrow:
Though Devotion needes not Art,
Sometime of the poore the rich may borrow.

Strive not yet for curious wayes:
Concord pleaseth more, the lesse 'tis strained;
Zeale affects not outward prayse,
Onely strives to shew a love unfained.

Love can wondrous things effect,
Sweetest Sacrifice, all wrath appeasing;
Love the highest doth respect,
Love alone to him is ever pleasing.

IX. [Most sweet and pleasing are thy wayes, O God]

Most sweet and pleasing are thy wayes, O God,
Like Meadowes deckt with Christall streames and flowers:
Thy paths no foote prophane hath ever trod,
Nor hath the proud man rested in thy Bowers.
There lives no Vultur, no devouring Beare,
But onely Doves and Lambs are harbor'd there.

The Wolfe his young ones to their prey doth guide;
The Foxe his Cubbs with false deceit endues;
The Lyons Whelpe suckes from his Damme his pride;
In hers the Serpent malice doth infuse:
The darksome Desart all such beasts contaynes,
Not one of them in Paradice remaynes.

X. [Wise men patience never want]

Wise men patience never want,
Good men pitty cannot hide:
Feeble spirits onely vant
Of revenge, the poorest pride.
Hee alone forgive that can
Beares the true soule of a man.

Some there are, debate that seeke,
Making trouble their content,
Happy if they wrong the meeke,
Vexe them that to peace are bent:
Such undooe the common tye
Of mankinde, societie.

Kindnesse growne is, lately, colde;
Conscience hath forgot her part;
Blessed times were knowne of old,
Long ere Law became an Art:
Shame deterr'd, not Statutes then,
Honest love was law to men.

Deeds from love, and words, that flowe
Foster like kinde Aprill showres;
In the warme Sunne all things grow,
Wholsome fruits and pleasant flowres;
All so thrives his gentle rayes,
Where on humane love displayes.

XI. [Never weather-beaten Saile more willing bent to shore]

Never weather-beaten Saile more willing bent to shore,
Never tyred Pilgrims limbs affected slumber more,
Then my weary spright now longs to flye out of my troubled brest.
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soule to rest.

Ever-blooming are the joyes of Heav'ns high paradice,
Cold age deafes not there our eares, nor vapour dims our eyes;
Glory there the Sun outshines, whose beames the blessed onely see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my spright to thee.

XII. [Lift up to heav'n, sad wretch, thy heavy spright]

Lift up to heav'n, sad wretch, thy heavy spright,
What though thy sinnes thy due destruction threat?
The Lord exceedes in mercy as in might;
His ruth is greater, though thy crimes be great.
Repentance needes not feare the heav'ns just rod,
It stayes ev'n thunder in the hand of God.

With chearefull voyce to him then cry for grace,
Thy Faith, and fainting Hope, with Prayer revive;
Remorce for all that truely mourne hath place;
Not God, but men of him themselves deprive:
Strive then, and hee will help; call him, hee'll heare:
The Sonne needes not the Fathers fury feare.

XIII. [Loe, when backe mine eye]

Loe, when backe mine eye,
Pilgrim-like, I cast,
What fearefull wayes I spye,
Which, blinded, I securely past!

But now heav'n hath drawne
From my browes that night;
As when the day doth dawne,
So cleares my long imprison'd sight.

Straight the caves of hell
Drest with flowres I see,
Wherein false pleasures dwell,
That, winning most, most deadly be.

Throngs of masked Feinds,
Wing'd like Angels, flye,
Ev'n in the gates of Friends;
In faire disguise blacke dangers lye.

Straight to Heav'n I rais'd
My restored sight,
And with loud voyce I prais'd
The Lord of ever-during light.

And, since I had stray'd
From his wayes so wide,
His grace I humbly pray'd
Hence-forth to be my guard and guide.

XIV. [As by the streames of Babilon]

As by the streames of Babilon,
Farre from our native soyle we sat,
Sweet Sion, thee we thought upon,
And ev'ry thought a teare begat.

Aloft the trees that spring up there
Our silent Harps wee pensive hung:
Said they that captiv'd us, Let's heare
Some song which you in Sion sung.

Is then the song of our God fit
To be prophan'd in forraine land?
O Salem, thee when I forget,
Forget his skill may my right hand!

Fast to the roofe cleave may my tongue,
If mindelesse I of thee be found:
Or if, when all my joyes are sung,
Jerusalem be not the ground.

Remember, Lord, how Edoms race
Cryed in Jerusalems sad day,
Hurle downe her wals, her towres deface;
And, stone by stone, all levell lay.

Curst Babels seede! for Salems sake
Just ruine yet for thee remaines!
Blest shall they be, thy babes that take,
And 'gainst the stones dash out their braines!

XV. [Sing a song of joy]

Sing a song of joy,
Prayse our God with mirth:
His flocke who can destroy?
Is hee not Lord of heav'n and earth?

Sing wee then secure,
Tuning well our strings:
With voyce, as Eccho pure,
Let us renowne the King of Kings.

First who taught the day
From the East to rise?
Whom doth the Sunne obey
When in the Seas his glory dyes?

Hee the Starres directs
That in order stand:
Who heav'n and earth protects,
But hee that fram'd them with his hand?

Angels round attend,
Wayting on his will;
Arm'd millions he doth send
To ayde the good or plague the ill.

All that dread his Name,
And his Hests observe,
His arme will shield from shame:
Their steps from truth shall never swerve.

Let us then rejoyce,
Sounding loud his prayse:
So will hee heare our voyce,
And blesse on earth our peacefull dayes.

XVI. [Awake, awake, thou heavy spright]

Awake, awake, thou heavy spright,
That sleep'st the deadly sleepe of sinne;
Rise now, and walke the wayes of light:
'Tis not too late yet to begin.
Seeke heav'n earely, seeke it late,
True Faith still findes an open gate.

Get up, get up, thou leaden man:
Thy tracks to endlesse joy or paine
Yeelds but the modell of a span;
Yet burnes out thy lifes lampe in vaine.
One minute bounds thy bane, or blisse,
Then watch, and labour while time is.

[Songs of 3. Parts.]

XVII. [Come, chearfull day, part of my life, to mee]

Come, chearfull day, part of my life, to mee:
For, while thou view'st me with thy fading light,
Part of my life doth still depart with thee,
And I still onward haste to my last night.
Times fatall wings doe ever forward flye,
Soe ev'ry day we live, a day wee dye.

But, O yee nights ordain'd for barren rest,
How are my dayes depriv'd of life in you,
When heavy sleepe my soule hath dispossest,
By fayned death life sweetly to renew!
Part of my life, in that, you life denye:
So ev'ry day we live, a day wee dye.

XVIII. [Seeke the Lord, and in his wayes persever]

Seeke the Lord, and in his wayes persever:
O faint not, but as Eagles flye,
For his steepe hill is high;
Then, striving, gaine the top, and triumph ever.

When with glory there thy browes are crowned,
New joyes so shall abound in thee,
Such sights thy soule shall see,
That wordly thoughts shall by their beames be drowned.

Farewell, World, thou masse of meere confusion,
False light with many shadowes dimm'd,
Old Witch with new foyles trimm'd,
Thou deadly sleepe of soule, and charm'd illusion.

I the King will seeke of Kings adored,
Spring of light, tree of grace and blisse,
Whose fruit so sov'raigne is
That all who taste it are from death restored.

XIX. [Lighten, heavy hart, thy spright]

Lighten, heavy hart, thy spright,
The joyes recall that thence are fled;
Yeeld thy brest some living light:
The man that nothing doth is dead.
Tune thy temper to these sounds,
And quicken so thy joylesse minde;
Sloth the worst and best confounds:
It is the ruine of mankinde.

From her cave rise all distasts,
Which unresolv'd Despaire pursues;
Whom soone after Violence hasts,
Her selfe ungratefull to abuse.
Skies are clear'd with stirring windes,
Th'unmoved water moorish growes;
Ev'ry eye much pleasure findes
To view a streame that brightly flowes.

XX. [Jacke and Jone, they thinke no ill]

Jacke and Jone, they thinke no ill,
But loving live, and merry still;
Doe their weeke dayes worke, and pray
Devotely on the holy day;
Skip and trip it on the greene,
And help to chuse the Summer Queene;
Lash out, at a Country Feast,
Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy Ale,
And tell at large a Winter tale;
Climbe up to the Apple loft,
And turne the Crabs till they be soft.
Tib is all the fathers joy,
And little Tom the mothers boy.
All their pleasure is content;
And care, to pay their yearely rent.

Jone can call by name her Cowes,
And decke her windowes with greene boughs;
Shee can wreathes and tuttyes make,
And trimme with plums a Bridall Cake.
Jacke knowes what brings gaine or losse,
And his long Flaile can stoutly tosse;
Make the hedge, which others breake,
And ever thinkes what he doth speake.

Now, you Courtly Dames and Knights,
That study onely strange delights,
Though you scorne the home-spun gray,
And revell in your rich array;
Though your tongues dissemble deepe,
And can your heads from danger keepe;
Yet, for all your pompe and traine,
Securer lives the silly Swaine.

[Songs of 2. Parts.]

XXI. [All lookes be pale, harts cold as stone.]

All lookes be pale, harts cold as stone.
For Hally now is dead, and gone,
Hally, in whose sight,
Most sweet sight,
All the earth late tooke delight.
Ev'ry eye, weepe with mee,
Joyes drown'd in teares must be.

His Iv'ry skin, his comely hayre,
His Rosie cheekes, so cleare and faire,
Eyes that once did grace
His bright face,
Now in him all want their place.
Eyes and hearts, weepe with mee,
For who so kinde as hee?

His youth was like an Aprill flowre,
Adorn'd with beauty, love, and powre;
Glory strow'd his way,
Whose wreaths gay
Now are all turn'd to decay.
Then againe weepe with mee,
None feele more cause then wee.

No more may his wisht sight returne,
His golden Lampe no more can burne;
Quencht is all his flame,
His hop't fame
Now hath left him nought but name.
For him all weepe with mee,
Since more him none shall see.

THE SECOND BOOKE OF AYRES. Containing Light Conceits of Lovers.

TO THE RIGHT NOBLE, AND VERTUOUS, HENRY LORD CLIFFORD,

Sonne and Heyre to the Right Honourable, FRANCIS, Earle of CUMBERLAND.

Such dayes as weare the badge of holy red
Are for devotion markt, and sage delight;
The vulgar Low-dayes, undistinguished,
Are left for labour, games, and sportfull sights.

This sev'rall and so diff'ring use of Time
Within th'enclosure of one weeke wee finde;
Which I resemble in my Notes and Rime,
Expressing both in their peculiar kinde.

Pure Hymnes, such as the seaventh day loves, doe leade;
Grave age did justly chalenge those of mee:
These weeke-day workes, in order that succeede,
Your youth best fits, and yours, yong Lord, they be:
As hee is, who to them their beeing gave;
If th'one, the other you of force must have.

Your Honors, THOMAS CAMPIAN.

TO THE READER.

That holy Hymnes with Lovers cares are knit
Both in one Quire here, thou maist think't unfit;
Why do'st not blame the Stationer as well,
Who in the same Shop sets all sorts to sell?
Divine with stiles prophane, grave shelv'd with vaine;
And some matcht worse, yet none of him complaine.

[Songs of 3. Parts.]

I. [Vaine men, whose follies make a God of Love]

Vaine men, whose follies make a God of Love,
Whose blindnesse beauty doth immortall deeme:
Prayse not what you desire, but what you prove,
Count those things good that are, not those that seeme:
I cannot call her true that's false to me,
Nor make of women more then women be.

How faire an entrance breakes the way to love!
How rich of golden hope, and gay delight!
What hart cannot a modest beauty move?
Who, seeing cleare day once, will dreame of night?
Shee seem'd a Saint, that brake her faith with mee,
But prov'd a woman, as all other be.

So bitter is their sweet, that true content
Unhappy men in them may never finde;
Ah, but without them, none; both must consent,
Else uncouth are the joyes of eyther kinde.
Let us then prayse their good, forget their ill:
Men must be men, and women women still.

II. [How eas'ly wert thou chained]

How eas'ly wert thou chained,
Fond hart, by favours fained!
Why liv'd thy hopes in grace,
Straight to dye disdained?
But, since th'art now beguiled
By Love that falsely smiled,
In some lesse happy place
Mourne alone exiled.
My love still here increaseth,
And with my love my griefe,
While her sweet bounty ceaseth,
That gave my woes reliefe.
Yet 'tis no woman leaves me,
For such may prove unjust:
A Goddesse thus deceives me,
Whose faith who could mistrust?

A Goddesse so much graced
That Paradice is placed
In her most heav'nly brest,
Once by love embraced;
But love, that so kinde proved,
Is now from her removed,
Nor will he longer rest
Where no faith is loved.
If Powres Celestiall wound us
And will not yeeld reliefe,
Woe then must needs confound us,
For none can cure our griefe.
No wonder if I languish
Through burden of my smart;
It is no common anguish
From Paradice to part.

III. [Harden now thy tyred hart with more then flinty rage]

Harden now thy tyred hart with more then flinty rage;
Ne'er let her false teares henceforth thy constant griefe asswage.
Once true happy dayes thou saw'st, when shee stood firme and kinde,
Both as one then liv'd, and held one eare, one tongue, one minde.
But now those bright houres be fled, and never may returne:
What then remaines, but her untruths to mourne?

Silly Tray-tresse, who shall now thy carelesse tresses place?
Who thy pretty talke supply? whose eare thy musicke grace?
Who shall thy bright eyes admire? what lips triumph with thine?
Day by day who'll visit thee and say, th'art onely mine?
Such a time there was, God wot, but such shall never be:
Too oft, I feare, thou wilt remember me.

IV. [O what unhop't for sweet supply!]

O what unhop't for sweet supply!
O what joyes exceeding!
What an affecting charme feele I,
From delight proceeding!
That which I long despair'd to be,
To her I am, and shee to mee.

Shee that alone in cloudy griefe
Long to mee appeared,
Shee now alone with bright reliefe
All those clouds hath cleared.
Both are immortall, and divine,
Since I am hers, and she is mine.

V. [Where shee her sacred bowre adornes]

Where shee her sacred bowre adornes,
The Rivers clearely flow:
The groves and medowes swell with flowres,
The windes all gently blow:
Her Sunne-like beauty shines so fayre,
Her Spring can never fade:
Who then can blame the life that strives
To harbour in her shade?

Her grace I sought, her love I wooed;
Her love though I obtaine,
No time, no toyle, no vow, no faith
Her wished grace can gaine.
Yet truth can tell my heart is hers,
And her will I adore:
And from that love when I depart,
Let heav'n view me no more.

Her roses with my prayer shall spring;
And when trees I praise,
Their boughs shall blossome, mellow fruit
Shall straw her pleasant wayes.
The words of harty zeale have powre
High wonders to effect;
O why should then her Princely eare
My words, or zeale neglect?

If shee my faith misdeemes, or worth,
Woe-worth my haplesse fate:
For, though time can my truth reveale,
That time will come too late.
And who can glory in the worth
That cannot yeeld him grace?
Content in ev'ry thing is not,
Nor joy in ev'ry place.

But, from her bowre of Joy since I
Must now excluded be,
And shee will not relieve my cares,
Which none can helpe but shee:
My comfort in her love shall dwell,
Her love lodge in my brest;
And though not in her bowre, yet I
Shall in her temple rest.

VI. [Faine would I my love disclose]

Faine would I my love disclose,
Aske what honour might denye;
But both love and her I lose,
From my motion if shee flye.
Worse then paine is feare to mee:
Then hold in fancy, though it burne;
If not happy, safe Ile be,
And to my clostred cares returne.

Yet, o yet, in vaine I strive
To represse my school'd desire;
More and more the flames revive,
I consume in mine owne fire.
She would pitty, might shee know
The harmes that I for her endure:
Speake then, and get comfort so:
A wound long hid growes past recure.

Wise shee is, and needs must know
All th'attempts that beauty moves:
Fayre she is, and honour'd so
That she, sure, hath tryed some loves.
If with love I tempt her then,
'Tis but her due to be desir'd:
What would women thinke of men,
If their deserts were not admir'd?

Women, courted, have the hand
To discard what they distaste:
But those Dames whom none demand
Want oft what their wils imbrac't.
Could their firmnesse iron excell,
As they are faire, they should be sought:
When true theeves use falsehood well,
As they are wise, they will be caught.

VII. [Give beauty all her right]

Give beauty all her right,
Shee's not to one forme tyed;
Each shape yeelds faire delight,
Where her perfections bide.
Hellen, I grant, might pleasing be;
And Ros'mond was as sweet as shee.

Some the quicke eye commends,
Some smelling lips and red;
Pale lookes have many friends,
Through sacred sweetnesse bred.
Medowes have flowres that pleasure move,
Though Roses are the flowres of love.

Free beauty is not bound
To one unmoved clime:
She visits ev'ry ground,
And favours ev'ry time.
Let the old loves with mine compare,
My sov'raigne is as sweet, and fayre.

VIII. [O deare, that I with thee might live]

O deare, that I with thee might live,
From humane trace removed:
Where jealous care might neither grieve,
Yet each dote on their loved.
While fond feare may colour finde, Love's seldome pleased;
But much like a sicke mans rest, it's soone diseased.

Why should our mindes not mingle so,
When love and faith is plighted,
That eyther might the others know,
Alike in all delighted?
Why should frailtie breed suspect, when hearts are fixed?
Must all humane joyes of force with griefe be mixed?

How oft have wee ev'n smilde in teares,
Our fond mistrust repenting?
As snow when heav'nly fire appeares,
So melts loves hate relenting.
Vexed kindnesse soone fals off, and soone returneth:
Such a flame the more you quench, the more it burneth.

IX. [Good men, shew, if you can tell]

Good men, shew, if you can tell,
Where doth humane pittie dwell?
Farre and neere her would I seeke,
So vext with sorrow is my brest.
She (they say) to all is meeke,
And onely makes th'unhappie blest.

Oh! if such a Saint there be,
Some hope yet remaines for me:
Prayer or sacrifice may gaine
From her implored grace reliefe,
To release mee of my paine,
Or at the least to ease my griefe.

Young am I, and farre from guile;
The more is my woe the while:
Falshood with a smooth disguise
My simple meaning hath abus'd,
Casting mists before mine eyes,
By which my senses are confus'd.

Faire he is, who vow'd to me
That he onely mine would be:
But, alas, his minde is caught
With ev'ry gaudie bait he sees.
And too late my flame is taught
That too much kindnesse makes men freese.

From me all my friends are gone,
While I pine for him alone;
And not one will rue my case,
But rather my distresse deride:
That I thinke there is no place
Where pittie ever yet did bide.

X. [What harvest halfe so sweet is]

What harvest halfe so sweet is,
As still to reape the kisses
Growne ripe in sowing?
And straight to be receiver
Of that which thou art giver,
Rich in bestowing?
Kisse then, my harvest Queene,
Full garners heaping;
Kisses, ripest when th'are greene,
Want onely reaping.

The Dove alone expresses
Her fervencie in kisses,
Of all most loving:
A creature as offencelesse
As those things that are sencelesse
And void of moving.
Let us so love and kisse,
Though all envie us:
That which kinde, and harmelesse is,
None can denie us.

XI. [Sweet, exclude mee not, nor be divided]

Sweet, exclude mee not, nor be divided
From him that ere long must bed thee:
All thy maiden doubts Law hath decided;
Sure wee are, and I must wed thee.
Presume then yet a little more:
Here's the way, barre not the dore.

Tenants, to fulfill their Land-lords pleasure,
Pay their rent before the quarter:
'Tis my case, if you it rightly measure;
Put mee not then off with laughter.
Consider then a little more:
Here's the way to all my store.

Why were dores in loves despight devised?
Are not Lawes enough restrayning?
Women are most apt to be surprised
Sleeping, or sleepe wisely fayning.
Then grace me yet a little more:
Here's the way, barre not the dore.

100

XII. [The peacefull westerne winde]

The peacefull westerne winde
The winter stormes hath tam'd,
And nature in each kinde
The kinde heat hath inflam'd.
The forward buds so sweetly breathe
Out of their earthy bowers,
That heav'n, which viewes their pompe beneath,
Would faine be deckt with flowers.

See how the morning smiles
On her bright easterne hill,
And with soft steps beguiles
Them that lie slumbring still.
The musicke-loving birds are come
From cliffes and rockes unknowne,
To see the trees and briers blome
That late were over-flowne.

What Saturne did destroy,
Loves Queene revives againe;
And now her naked boy
Doth in the fields remaine:
Where he such pleasing change doth view
In ev'ry living thing,
As if the world were borne anew
To gratifie the Spring.

If all things life present,
Why die my comforts then?
Why suffers my content?
Am I the worst of men?
O beautie, be not thou accus'd
Too justly in this case:
Unkindly if true love be us'd,
'Twill yeeld thee little grace.

102

XIII. [There is none, O none but you]

There is none, O none but you,
That from mee estrange your sight,
Whom mine eyes affect to view
Or chained eares heare with delight.

Other beauties others move,
In you I all graces finde:
Such is the effect of love,
To make them happy that are kinde.

Women in fraile beauty trust,
Onely seeme you faire to mee;
Yet prove truely kinde and just,
For that may not dissembled be.

Sweet, afford mee then your sight,
That, survaying all your lookes,
Endlesse volumes I may write,
And fill the world with envyed bookes:

Which when after ages view,
All shall wonder, and despaire,
Woman to finde man so true,
Or man a woman halfe so faire.

103

XIV. [Pin'd I am, and like to die]

Pin'd I am, and like to die,
And all for lacke of that which I
Doe ev'ry day refuse.
If I musing sit, or stand,
Some puts it daily in my hand,
To interrupt my muse.
The same thing I seeke, and flie,
And want that which none would denie.

In my bed, when I should rest,
It breeds such trouble in my brest
That scarce mine eyes will close:
If I sleepe, it seemes to be
Oft playing in the bed with me,
But, wak't, away it goes.
Tis some spirit, sure, I weene,
And yet it may be felt, and seene.

Would I had the heart and wit
To make it stand, and conjure it,
That haunts me thus with feare.
Doubtlesse tis some harmlesse spright,
For it by day, as well as night,
Is ready to appeare.
Be it friend, or be it foe,
Ere long Ile trie what it will doe.

105

XV. [So many loves have I neglected]

So many loves have I neglected
Whose good parts might move mee,
That now I live of all rejected,
There is none will love me.
Why is mayden heate so coy?
It freezeth when it burneth,
Looseth what it might injoy,
And, having lost it, mourneth.

Should I then wooe, that have been wooed,
Seeking them that flye mee?
When I my faith with teares have vowed,
And when all denye mee,
Who will pitty my disgrace,
Which love might have prevented?
There is no submission base
Where error is repented.

O happy men, whose hopes are licenc'd
To discourse their passion,
While women are confin'd to silence,
Loosing wisht occasion.
Yet our tongues then theirs, men say,
Are apter to be moving:
Women are more dumbe then they,
But in their thoughts more roving.

When I compare my former strangenesse
With my present doting,
I pitty men that speake in plainenesse,
Their true hearts devoting;
While wee with repentance jest
At their submissive passion:
Maydes, I see, are never blest
That strange be but for fashion.

106

XVI. [Though your strangenesse frets my hart]

Though your strangenesse frets my hart,
Yet may not I complaine:
You perswade me, 'tis but Art,
That secret love must faine.
If another you affect,
'Tis but a shew t'avoid suspect.
Is this faire excusing? O no, all is abusing.

Your wisht sight if I desire,
Suspitions you pretend;
Causelesse you your selfe retire,
While I in vaine attend.
This a Lover whets, you say,
Still made more eager by delay.
Is this faire excusing? O no, all is abusing.

When another holds your hand,
You sweare I hold your hart:
When my Rivals close doe stand
And I sit farre apart,
I am neerer yet then they,
Hid in your bosome, as you say.
Is this faire excusing? O no, all is abusing.

Would my Rival then I were,
Some els your secret friend:
So much lesser should I feare,
And not so much attend.
They enjoy you, ev'ry one,
Yet I must seeme your friend alone.
Is this faire excusing? O no, all is abusing.

108

XVII. [Come away, arm'd with loves delights]

Come away, arm'd with loves delights,
Thy sprightfull graces bring with thee:
When loves longing fights,
They must the sticklers be.
Come quickly, come, the promis'd houre is wel-nye spent,
And pleasure, being too much deferr'd, looseth her best content.

Is shee come? O, how neare is shee?
How farre yet from this friendly place?
How many steps from me?
When shall I her imbrace?
These armes Ile spred, which onely at her sight shall close,
Attending as the starry flowre that the Suns noone-tide knowes.

109

XVIII. [Come, you pretty false-ey'd wanton]

Come, you pretty false-ey'd wanton,
Leave your crafty smiling:
Thinke you to escape me now
With slipp'ry words beguiling?
No; you mock't me th'other day,
When you got loose, you fled away;
But, since I have caught you now,
Ile clip your wings for flying:
Smothring kisses fast Ile heape,
And keepe you so from crying.

Sooner may you count the starres,
And number hayle downe pouring,
Tell the Osiers of the Temmes,
Or Goodwins Sands devouring,
Then the thicke-showr'd kisses here
Which now thy tyred lips must beare.
Such a harvest never was,
So rich and full of pleasure,
But 'tis spent as soone as reapt,
So trustlesse is loves treasure.

Would it were dumb midnight now,
When all the world lyes sleeping:
Would this place some Desert were,
Which no man hath in keeping.

110

My desires should then be safe,
And when you cry'd then would I laugh;
But if ought might breed offence,
Love onely should be blamed:
I would live your servant still,
And you my Saint unnamed.

111

XIX. [A secret love or two, I must confesse]

A secret love or two, I must confesse,
I kindly welcome for change in close playing:
Yet my deare husband I love ne'erthelesse,
His desires, whole or halfe, quickly allaying,
At all times ready to offer redresse.
His owne he never wants, but hath it duely,
Yet twits me, I keepe not touch with him truly.

The more a spring is drawne, the more it flowes;
No Lampe lesse light retaines by lighting others:
Is hee a looser his losse that ne're knowes?
Or is he wealthy that wast treasure smothers?
My churle vowes no man shall sent his sweet Rose:
His owne enough and more I give him duely,
Yet still he twits mee, I keepe not touch truly.

Wise Archers beare more then one shaft to field,
The Venturer loads not with one ware his shipping:
Should Warriers learne but one weapon to weilde?
Or thrive faire plants ere the worse for the slipping?
One dish cloyes, many fresh appetite yeeld:
Mine owne Ile use, and his he shall have duely,
Judge then what debter can keepe touch more truly.

112

XX. [Her rosie cheekes, her ever smiling eyes]

Her rosie cheekes, her ever smiling eyes,
Are Spheares and beds where Love in triumph lies:
Her rubine lips, when they their pearle unlocke,
Make them seeme as they did rise
All out of one smooth Currall Rocke.
Oh, that of other Creatures store I knew
More worthy, and more rare:
For these are old, and shee so new,
That her to them none should compare.

Oh, could she love, would shee but heare a friend,
Or that shee onely knew what sighs pretend.
Her lookes inflame, yet cold as Ice is shee.
Doe or speake, all's to one end,
For what shee is, that will shee be.
Yet will I never cease her prayse to sing,
Though she gives no regard:
For they that grace a worthlesse thing
Are onely greedy of reward.

[Songs of 2. Parts.]

XXI. [Where shall I refuge seeke, if you refuse mee?]

Where shall I refuge seeke, if you refuse mee?
In you my hope, in you my fortune lyes;
In you my life, though you unjust accuse me,
My service scorne, and merit underprise.
Oh bitter griefe, that exile is become
Reward for faith, and pittie deafe and dumbe.

Why should my firmnesse finde a seate so wav'ring?
My simple vowes, my love you entertain'd,
Without desert the same againe disfav'ring;
Yet I my word and passion hold unstain'd.
Oh wretched me, that my chiefe joy should breede
My onely griefe, and kindnesse pitty neede.

FINIS.

113

Songs of Mourning: BEWAILING

the untimely death of Prince Henry. Worded by THO. CAMPION.
[_]

And set forth to bee sung with one voyce to the Lute, or Violl: By JOHN COPRARIO.

1613

117

AN ELEGIE

upon the untimely death of Prince Henry.

Reade, you that have some teares left yet unspent,
Now weepe your selves hart sicke, and nere repent:
For I will open to your free accesse
The sanctuary of all heavinesse,
Where men their fill may mourne, and never sinne:
And I their humble Priest thus first beginne.

Fly from the Skies, yee blessed beames of light;
Rise up in horrid vapours, ugly night,
And fetter'd bring that ravenous monster Fate,
The fellon and the traytour to our state.
Law-Eloquence wee neede not to convince
His guilt; all know it, 'tis hee stole our Prince,
The Prince of men, the Prince of all that bore
Ever that princely name; O now no more
Shall his perfections, like the Sunne-beames, dare
The purblinde world: in heav'n those glories are.
What could the greatest artist, Nature, adde
T'encrease his graces? devine forme hee had,
Striving in all his parts which should surpasse;
And like a well tun'd chime his carriage was
Full of coelestiall witchcraft, winning all
To admiration and love personall.
His Launce appear'd to the beholders eyes,
When his faire hand advanc't it in the skyes,
Larger then truth, for well could hee it wield,
And make it promise honour in the field.
When Court and Musicke cal'd him, off fell armes,
And, as hee had beene shap't for loves alarmes,
In harmony hee spake, and trod the ground
In more proportion then the measur'd sound.
How fit for peace was hee, and rosie beds!
How fit to stand in troopes of iron heads,
When time had with his circles made complete
His charmed rounds! All things in time grow great.

This feare, even like a commet that hangs high,

118

And shootes his threatning flashes through the skye,
Held all the eyes of Christendome intent
Upon his youthfull hopes, casting th'event
Of what was in his power, not in his will:
For that was close conceal'd, and must lye still,
As deepely hid as that designe which late
With the French Lyon dyed. O earthly state,
How doth thy greatnesse in a moment fall,
And feastes in highest pompe turne funerall!

But our young Henry, arm'd with all the arts
That sute with Empire, and the gaine of harts,
Bearing before him fortune, power, and love,
Appear'd first in perfection, fit to move
Fixt admiration; though his yeeres were greene,
Their fruit was yet mature: his care had beene
Survaying India, and implanting there
The knowledge of that God which hee did feare:
And ev'n now, though hee breathlesse lyes, his sayles
Are strugling with the windes, for our avayles
T'explore a passage hid from humane tract,
Will fame him in the enterprise or fact.
O Spirit full of hope, why art thou fled
From deedes of honour? why's that vertue dead
Which dwelt so well in thee? a bowre more sweet,
If Paradise were found, it could not meete.

Curst then bee Fate that stole our blessing so,
And had for us now nothing left but woe,

119

Had not th'All-seeing providence yet kept
Another joy safe, that in silence slept:
And that same Royall workeman, who could frame
A Prince so worthy of immortall fame,
Lives; and long may hee live, to forme the other
His exprest image, and grace of his brother,
To whose eternall peace wee offer now
Guifts which hee lov'd, and fed: Musicks that flow
Out of a sowre and melancholike vayne,
Which best sort with the sorrowes wee sustaine.

120

1. TO THE MOST SACRED King James.

O Griefe, how divers are thy shapes wherein men languish!
The face sometime with teares thou fil'st,
Sometime the hart thou kill'st
With unseene anguish.
Sometime thou smil'st to view how Fate
Playes with our humane state:
So farre from surety here
Are all our earthly joyes,
That what our strong hope buildes, when least wee feare,
A stronger power destroyes.

O Fate, why shouldst thou take from KINGS their joy and treasure?
Their Image if men should deface,
'Twere death, which thou dost race
Even at thy pleasure.
Wisedome of holy Kings yet knowes
Both what it hath, and owes.
Heav'ns hostage, which you bredd
And nurst with such choyce care,
Is ravisht now, great KING, and from us ledd
When wee were least aware.

121

2. TO THE MOST SACRED Queene Anne.

Tis now dead night, and not a light on earth
Or starre in heaven doth shine:
Let now a mother mourne the noblest birth
That ever was both mortall and divine.
O sweetnesse peerelesse! more then humane grace!
O flowry beauty! O untimely death!
Now, Musicke, fill this place
With thy most dolefull breath:
O singing wayle a fate more truely funerall
Then when with all his sonnes the sire of Troy did fall.

Sleepe Joy, dye Mirth, and not a smile be seene,
Or shew of harts content:
For never sorrow neerer touch't a QUEENE,
Nor were there ever teares more duely spent.
O deare remembrance, full of ruefull woe!
O ceacelesse passion! O unhumane hower!
No pleasure now can grow,
For wither'd is her flower.
O anguish doe thy worst, and fury Tragicall,
Since fate in taking one hath thus disorder'd all.

122

3. TO THE MOST HIGH AND MIGHTY Prince Charles.

Fortune and Glory may be lost and woone,
But when the worke of Nature is undone
That losse flyes past returning;
No helpe is left but mourning.
What can to kinde youth more despightfull prove
Then to be rob'd of one sole Brother?
Father and Mother
Aske reverence, a Brother onely love.
Like age and birth, like thoughts and pleasures move:
What gayne can he heape up, though showers of Crownes descend,
Who for that good must change a brother and a friend?

Follow, O follow yet thy Brothers fame,
But not his fate: lets onely change the name,
And finde his worth presented
In thee, by him prevented.
Or, past example of the dead, be great,
Out of thy selfe begin thy storie:
Vertue and glorie
Are eminent, being plac't in princely seate.
Oh, heaven, his age prolong with sacred heate,
And on his honoured head let all the blessings light
Which to his brothers life men wish't, and wisht them right.

123

4. TO THE MOST PRINCELY AND VERTUOUS the Lady Elizabeth.

So parted you as if the world for ever
Had lost with him her light:
Now could your teares hard flint to ruth excite,
Yet may you never
Your loves againe partake in humane sight:
O why should love such two kinde harts dissever
As nature never knit more faire or firme together?

So loved you as sister should a brother,
Not in a common straine,
For Princely blood doeth vulgar fire disdaine:
But you each other
On earth embrac't in a celestiall chaine.
Alasse for love, that heav'nly borne affection
To change should subject be, and suffer earths infection.

124

5. TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AND MIGHTY Fredericke the fift, Count Palatine of the Rhein.

How like a golden dreame you met and parted,
That pleasing straight doth vanish:
O, who can ever banish
The thought of one so princely and free harted!
But hee was pul'd up in his prime by fate,
And love for him must mourne, though all too late.
Teares to the dead are due, let none forbid
Sad harts to sigh: true griefe cannot be hid.

Yet the most bitter storme to height encreased
By heav'n againe is ceased:
O time, that all things movest,
In griefe and joy thou equall measure lovest:
Such the condition is of humane life,
Care must with pleasure mixe, and peace with strife:
Thoughts with the dayes must change; as tapers waste,
So must our griefes; day breakes when night is past.

125

6. To the Most Disconsolate Great Brittaine.

When pale famine fed on thee
With her insatiate jawes;
When civill broyles set murder free,
Contemning all thy lawes;
When heav'n, enrag'd, consum'd thee so
With plagues, that none thy face could know,
Yet in thy lookes affliction then shew'd lesse
Then now for ones fall all thy parts expresse.

Now thy highest States lament
A sonne, and Brothers losse;
Thy nobles mourne in discontent,
And rue this fatall crosse;
Thy Commons are with passion sad
To thinke how brave a Prince they had:
If all thy rockes from white to blacke should turne,
Yet couldst thou not in shew more amply mourne.

126

7. To the World.

O poore distracted world, partly a slave
To Pagans sinnefull rage, partly obscur'd
With ignorance of all the meanes that save;
And ev'n those parts of thee that live assur'd
Of heav'nly grace, Oh how they are devided
With doubts late by a Kingly penne decided!
O happy world, if what the Sire begunne
Had beene clos'd up by his religious Sonne!

Mourne all you soules opprest under the yoake
Of Christian-hating Thrace: never appear'd
More likelyhood to have that blacke league broke,
For such a heavenly prince might well be fear'd
Of earthly fiends. Oh, how is Zeale inflamed
With power, when truth wanting defence is shamed!
O princely soule, rest thou in peace, while wee
In thine expect the hopes were ripe in thee.

FINIS.

127

THE THIRD AND FOURTH BOOKE OF AYRES:

Composed BY Thomas Campian.
[_]

So as they may be expressed by one Voyce, with a Violl, Lute, or Orpharion.

133

THE THIRD BOOKE

TO MY HONOURABLE FRIEND, Sr. THOMAS MOUNSON, KNIGHT AND BARONET.

Since now those clouds, that lately over-cast
Your Fame and Fortune, are disperst at last:
And now since all to you fayre greetings make,
Some out of love, and some for pitties sake:
Shall I but with a common stile salute
Your new enlargement? or stand onely mute?
I, to whose trust and care you durst commit
Your pined health, when Arte despayr'd of it?
I, that in your affliction often view'd
In you the fruits of manly fortitude,
Patience, and even constancie of minde,
That Rocke-like stood, and scorn'd both wave and winde?
Should I, for all your ancient love to me,
Endow'd with waighty favours, silent be?
Your merits, and my gratitude, forbid
That eyther should in Lethean Gulfe lye hid.
But how shall I this worke of fame expresse?
How can I better, after pensivenesse,
Then with light straynes of Musicke, made to move
Sweetly with the wide-spreading plumes of love?
These youth-borne Ayres, then, prison'd in this Booke,
Which in your Bowres much of their beeing tooke,
Accept as a kinde offring from that hand
Which, joyn'd with heart, your vertue may command.
Who love a sure friend, as all good men doe,
Since such you are, let those affect you to:
And may the joyes of that Crowne never end,
That innocence doth pitty, and defend.

Yours devoted, THOMAS CAMPIAN.

134

I. [Oft have I sigh'd for him that heares me not]

Oft have I sigh'd for him that heares me not,
Who absent hath both love and mee forgot.
Oh yet I languish still through his delay:
Dayes seeme as yeares, when wisht friends breake their day.

Had hee but lov'd as common lovers use,
His faithlesse stay some kindnesse would excuse:
O yet I languish still, still constant mourne
For him that can breake vowes, but not returne.

II. [Now let her change and spare not]

Now let her change and spare not;
Since she proves strange I care not:
Fain'd love charm'd so my delight
That still I doted on her sight.
But she is gone, new joies imbracing
And my desires disgracing.

When did I erre in blindnesse?
Or vexe her with unkindnesse?
If my cares serv'd her alone,
Why is shee thus untimely gone?
True love abides to th'houre of dying;
False love is ever flying.

False, then farewell for ever:
Once false proves faithfull never.
Hee that boasts now of thy love
Shall soone my present fortunes prove:
Were he as faire as bright Adonis,
Faith is not had where none is.

137

III. [Were my hart as some mens are, thy errours would not move me]

Were my hart as some mens are, thy errours would not move me:
But thy faults I curious finde, and speake because I love thee;
Patience is a thing divine and farre, I grant, above mee.

Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deedes objecting,
Then th'obsequious bosome guest, with false respect affecting:
Friendship is the glasse of Truth, our hidden staines detecting.

While I use of eyes enjoy, and inward light of reason,
Thy observer will I be, and censor, but in season:
Hidden mischiefe to conceale in State and Love is treason.

IV. [Maydes are simple, some men say]

Maydes are simple, some men say:
They, forsooth, will trust no men.
But, should they mens wils obey,
Maides were very simple then.

Truth a rare flower now is growne,
Few men weare it in their hearts;
Lovers are more easily knowne
By their follies, then deserts.

Safer may we credit give
To a faithlesse wandring Jew
Then a young mans vowes beleeve
When he sweares his love is true.

Love they make a poore blinde childe,
But let none trust such as hee:
Rather then to be beguil'd,
Ever let me simple be.

138

V. [So tyr'd are all my thoughts, that sence and spirits faile]

So tyr'd are all my thoughts, that sence and spirits faile;
Mourning I pine, and know not what I ayle.
O what can yeeld ease to a minde,
Joy in nothing that can finde?

How are my powres fore-spoke? what strange distaste is this?
Hence, cruell hate of that which sweetest is:
Come, come delight, make my dull braine
Feele once heate of joy againe.

The lovers teares are sweet, their mover makes them so;
Proud of a wound the bleeding Souldiers grow:
Poore I alone, dreaming, endure
Griefe that knowes nor cause, nor cure.

And whence can all this grow? even from an idle minde,
That no delight in any good can finde.
Action alone makes the soule blest:
Vertue dyes with too much rest.

139

VI. [Why presumes thy pride on that, that must so private be]

Why presumes thy pride on that, that must so private be
Scarce that it can good be cal'd, though it seemes best to thee,
Best of all that Nature fram'd, or curious eye can see?

Tis thy beauty, foolish Maid, that like a blossome growes,
Which who viewes no more enjoyes then on a bush a Rose;
That by manies handling fades, and thou art one of those.

If to one thou shalt prove true, and all beside reject,
Then art thou but one mans good, which yeelds a poore effect;
For the common'st good by farre deserves the best respect.

But if for this goodnesse thou thy selfe wilt common make,
Thou art then not good at all; so thou canst no way take
But to prove the meanest good, or else all good forsake.

Be not then of beauty proud, but so her colours beare
That they prove not staines to her that them for grace should weare:
So shalt thou to all more fayre then thou wert borne appeare.

140

VII. [Kinde are her answeres]

Kinde are her answeres,
But her performance keeps no day,
Breaks time, as dancers
From their own Musicke when they stray:
All her free favors
And smooth words wing my hopes in vaine.
O did ever voice so sweet but only fain?
Can true love yeeld such delay,
Converting joy to pain?

Lost is our freedome
When we submit to women so:
Why doe wee neede them,
When in their best they worke our woe?
There is no wisedome
Can alter ends by Fate prefixt:
O why is the good of man with evill mixt?
Never were dayes yet cal'd two,
But one night went betwixt.

142

VIII. [O griefe, O spight, to see poore Vertue scorn'd]

O griefe, O spight, to see poore Vertue scorn'd,
Truth far exil'd, False arte lov'd, Vice ador'd,
Free Justice sold, worst causes best adorn'd,
Right cast by Powre, Pittie in vaine implor'd!
O who in such an age could wish to live,
When none can have or hold, but such as give?

O times! O men! to Nature rebels growne,
Poore in desert, in name rich, proud of shame,
Wise but in ill: your stiles are not your owne,
Though dearely bought; honour is honest fame.
Old Stories onely goodnesse now containe,
And the true wisedome that is just, and plaine.

IX. [O never to be moved]

O never to be moved,
O beauty unrelenting!
Hard hart, too dearely loved;
Fond love, too late repenting!
Why did I dreame of too much blisse?
Deceitfull hope was cause of this.
O heare mee speake this, and no more:
Live you in joy, while I my woes deplore.

All comforts despayred
Distaste your bitter scorning;
Great sorrowes unrepayred
Admit no meane in mourning:
Dye, wretch, since hope from thee is fled;
He that must dye is better dead.
O deare delight, yet, ere I dye,
Some pitty shew, though you reliefe deny.

144

X. [Breake now my heart and dye! Oh no, she may relent.]

Breake now my heart and dye! Oh no, she may relent.
Let my despaire prevayle! Oh stay, hope is not spent.
Should she now fixe one smile on thee, where were despaire?
The losse is but easie which smiles can repayre.
A stranger would please thee, if she were as fayre.

Her must I love or none, so sweet none breathes as shee;
The more is my despayre, alas, shee loves not mee:
But cannot time make way for love through ribs of steele?
The Grecian, inchanted all parts but the heele,
At last a shaft daunted, which his hart did feele.

146

XI. [If Love loves truth, then women doe not love]

If Love loves truth, then women doe not love;
Their passions all are but dissembled shewes;
Now kinde and free of favour if they prove,
Their kindnes straight a tempest overthrowes.
Then as a Sea-man the poore lover fares:
The storme drownes him ere hee can drowne his cares.

But why accuse I women that deceive?
Blame then the Foxes for their subtile wile:
They first from Nature did their craft receive:
It is a womans nature to beguile.
Yet some, I grant, in loving stedfast grow;
But such by use are made, not nature, so.

O why had Nature power at once to frame
Deceit and Beauty, traitors both to Love?
O would Deceit had dyed when Beauty came
With her divinesse ev'ry heart to move!
Yet doe we rather wish, what ere befall,
To have fayre women false, then none at all.

147

XII. [Now winter nights enlarge]

Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their houres,
And clouds their stormes discharge
Upon the ayrie towres;
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o'erflow with wine,
Let well-tun'd words amaze
With harmonie divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall waite on hunny Love,
While youthfull Revels, Masks, and Courtly sights,
Sleepes leaden spels remove.

This time doth well dispence
With lovers long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
All doe not all things well:
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted Ridles tell,
Some Poems smoothly read.
The Summer hath his joyes,
And Winter his delights;
Though Love and all his pleasures are but toyes,
They shorten tedious nights.

148

XIII. [Awake, thou spring of speaking grace, mute rest becomes not thee]

Awake, thou spring of speaking grace, mute rest becomes not thee;
The fayrest women, while they sleepe, and Pictures equall bee.
O come and dwell in loves discourses,
Old renuing, new creating.
The words which thy rich tongue discourses
Are not of the common rating.

Thy voyce is as an Eccho cleare which Musicke doth beget,
Thy speech is as an Oracle which none can counterfeit:
For thou alone, without offending,
Hast obtain'd power of enchanting;
And I could heare thee without ending,
Other comfort never wanting.

Some little reason brutish lives with humane glory share;
But language is our proper grace, from which they sever'd are.
As brutes in reason man surpasses,
Men in speech excell each other:
If speech be then the best of graces,
Doe it not in slumber smother.

149

XIV. [What is it that all men possesse, among themselves conversing?]

What is it that all men possesse, among themselves conversing?
Wealth or fame, or some such boast, scarce worthy the rehearsing?
Women onely are mens good, with them in love conversing.

If weary, they prepare us rest; if sicke, their hand attends us;
When with griefe our hearts are prest, their comfort best befriends us:
Sweet or sowre, they willing goe to share what fortune sends us.

What pretty babes with paine they beare, our name and form presenting!
What we get, how wise they keepe, by sparing, wants preventing;
Sorting all their houshold cares to our observ'd contenting.

All this, of whose large use I sing, in two words is expressed:
Good wife is the good I praise, if by good men possessed;
Bad with bad in ill sute well, but good with good live blessed.

150

XV. [Fire that must flame is with apt fuell fed]

Fire that must flame is with apt fuell fed,
Flowers that wil thrive in sunny soyle are bred;
How can a hart feele heate that no hope findes?
Or can hee love on whom no comfort shines?

Fayre, I confesse there's pleasure in your sight:
Sweet, you have powre, I grant, of all delight:
But what is all to mee, if I have none?
Churle that you are, t'injoy such wealth alone.

Prayers move the heav'ns, but finde no grace with you;
Yet in your lookes a heavenly forme I view:
Then will I pray againe, hoping to finde,
As well as in your lookes, heav'n in your minde.

Saint of my heart, Queene of my life, and love,
O let my vowes thy loving spirit move:
Let me no longer mourne through thy disdaine,
But with one touch of grace cure all my paine.

151

XVI. [If thou longst so much to learne (sweet boy) what 'tis to love]

If thou longst so much to learne (sweet boy) what 'tis to love,
Doe but fixe thy thought on mee, and thou shalt quickly prove.
Little sute, at first, shal win
Way to thy abasht desire,
But then will I hedge thee in,
Salamander-like, with fire.

With thee dance I will, and sing, and thy fond dalliance beare;
Wee the grovy hils will climbe, and play the wantons there;
Other whiles wee'le gather flowres,
Lying dalying on the grasse,
And thus our delightfull howres
Full of waking dreames shall passe.

When thy joyes were thus at height, my love should turne from thee;
Old acquaintance then should grow as strange as strange might be;
Twenty rivals thou should'st finde
Breaking all their hearts for mee,
When to all Ile prove more kinde
And more forward then to thee.

Thus thy silly youth, enrag'd, would soone my love defie;
But, alas, poore soule, too late: clipt wings can never flye.
Those sweet houres which wee had past,
Cal'd to minde, thy heart would burne;
And, could'st thou flye ne'er so fast,
They would make thee straight returne.

152

XVII. [Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee]

Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee,
When the ev'ning beames are set?
Shall I not excluded be?
Will you finde no fained lett?
Let me not, for pitty, more,
Tell the long houres at your dore.

Who can tell what theefe or foe,
In the covert of the night,
For his prey, will worke my woe,
Or through wicked foule despight:
So may I dye unredrest,
Ere my long love be possest.

But, to let such dangers passe,
Which a lovers thoughts disdaine,
'Tis enough in such a place
To attend loves joyes in vaine.
Doe not mocke me in thy bed,
While these cold nights freeze me dead.

154

XVIII. [Thrice tosse these Oaken ashes in the ayre]

Thrice tosse these Oaken ashes in the ayre,
Thrice sit thou mute in this inchanted chayre;
Then thrice three times tye up this true loves knot,
And murmur soft, shee will, or shee will not.

Goe burne these poys'nous weedes in yon blew fire,
These Screech-owles fethers, and this prickling bryer,
This Cypresse gathered at a dead mans grave:
That all thy feares and cares an end may have.

Then come, you Fayries, dance with me a round,
Melt her hard hart with your melodious sound.
In vaine are all the charmes I can devise:
She hath an Arte to breake them with her eyes.

155

XIX. [Be thou then my beauty named]

Be thou then my beauty named,
Since thy will is to be mine:
For by that am I enflamed,
Which on all alike doth shine.
Others may the light admire,
I onely truely feele the fire.

But, if lofty titles move thee,
Challenge then a Sov'raignes place:
Say I honour when I love thee,
Let me call thy kindnesse grace.
State and Love things divers bee,
Yet will we teach them to agree.

Or, if this be not sufficing,
Be thou stil'd my Goddesse then:
I will love thee sacrificing,
In thine honour Hymnes Ile pen.
To be thine, what canst thou more?
Ile love thee, serve thee, and adore.

156

XX. [Fire, fire, fire, fire!]

Fire, fire, fire, fire!
Loe here I burne in such desire
That all the teares that I can straine
Out of mine idle empty braine
Cannot allay my scorching paine.
Come Trent, and Humber, and fayre Thames,
Dread Ocean, haste with all thy streames:
And, if you cannot quench my fire,
O drowne both mee and my desire.

Fire, fire, fire, fire!
There is no hell to my desire:
See, all the Rivers backward flye,
And th'Ocean doth his waves deny,
For feare my heate should drinke them dry.
Come, heav'nly showres, then, pouring downe;
Come, you that once the world did drowne:
Some then you spar'd, but now save all,
That else must burne, and with mee fall.

159

XXI. [O sweet delight, O more then humane blisse]

O sweet delight, O more then humane blisse,
With her to live that ever loving is;
To heare her speake, whose words so well are plac't,
That she by them, as they in her are grac't;
Those lookes to view, that feast the viewers eye;
How blest is he that may so live and dye!

Such love as this the golden times did know,
When all did reape, yet none tooke care to sow:
Such love as this an endlesse Summer makes,
And all distaste from fraile affection takes.
So lov'd, so blest, in my belov'd am I;
Which, till their eyes ake, let yron men envy.

XXII. [Thus I resolve, and time hath taught me so]

Thus I resolve, and time hath taught me so:
Since she is fayre and ever kinde to me,
Though she be wilde and wanton-like in shew,
Those little staines in youth I will not see.
That she be constant, heav'n I oft implore;
If pray'rs prevaile not, I can doe no more.

Palme tree the more you presse, the more it growes:
Leave it alone, it will not much exceede.
Free beauty if you strive to yoke, you lose,
And for affection strange distaste you breede.
What Nature hath not taught, no Arte can frame:
Wilde borne be wilde still, though by force made tame.

160

XXIII. [Come, O come, my lifes delight]

Come, O come, my lifes delight,
Let me not in langour pine:
Love loves no delay: thy sight,
The more enjoy'd, the more divine.
O come, and take from mee
The paine of being depriv'd of thee.

Thou all sweetnesse dost enclose,
Like a little world of blisse:
Beauty guards thy lookes: the Rose
In them pure and eternall is.
Come then, and make thy flight
As swift to me as heav'nly light.

XXIV. [Could my heart more tongues imploy]

Could my heart more tongues imploy
Then it harbors thoughts of griefe,
It is now so farre from joy
That it scarce could aske reliefe.
Truest hearts by deedes unkinde
To despayre are most enclin'd.

Happy mindes, that can redeeme
Their engagements how they please,
That no joyes or hopes esteeme
Halfe so pretious as their ease!
Wisedome should prepare men so
As if they did all foreknow.

Yet no Arte or Caution can
Growne affections easily change;
Use is such a Lord of Man
That he brookes worst what is strange.
Better never to be blest
Then to loose all at the best.

161

XXV. [Sleepe, angry beauty, sleep, and feare not me]

Sleepe, angry beauty, sleep, and feare not me,
For who a sleeping Lyon dares provoke?
It shall suffice me here to sit and see
Those lips shut up that never kindely spoke.
What sight can more content a lovers minde
Then beauty seeming harmlesse, if not kinde?

My words have charm'd her, for secure shee sleepes,
Though guilty much of wrong done to my love;
And in her slumber, see! shee close-ey'd weepes!
Dreames often more then waking passions move.
Pleade, sleepe, my cause, and make her soft like thee,
That shee in peace may wake and pitty mee.

162

XXVI. [Silly boy, 'tis ful Moone yet, thy night as day shines clearely]

Silly boy, 'tis ful Moone yet, thy night as day shines clearely;
Had thy youth but wit to feare, thou couldst not love so dearely.
Shortly wilt thou mourne when all thy pleasures are bereaved;
Little knowes he how to love that never was deceived.

This is thy first mayden flame, that triumphes yet unstayned;
All is artlesse now you speake, not one word yet is fayned;
All is heav'n that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessed:
But no Spring can want his Fall, each Troylus hath his Cresseid.

Thy well-order'd lockes ere long shall rudely hang neglected;
And thy lively pleasant cheare reade griefe on earth dejected.
Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint, that made thy heart so holy,
And with sighs confesse, in love, that too much faith is folly.

Yet, be just and constant still; Love may beget a wonder,
Not unlike a Summers frost, or Winters fatall thunder:
Hee that holds his Sweet-hart true unto his day of dying
Lives, of all that ever breath'd, most worthy the envying.

163

XXVII. [Never love unlesse you can]

Never love unlesse you can
Beare with all the faults of man:
Men sometimes will jealous bee
Though but little cause they see,
And hang the head, as discontent,
And speake what straight they will repent.

Men that but one Saint adore
Make a shew of love to more:
Beauty must be scorn'd in none,
Though but truely serv'd in one:
For what is courtship, but disguise?
True hearts may have dissembling eyes.

Men, when their affaires require,
Must a while themselves retire:
Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawke,
And not ever sit and talke.
If these, and such like, you can beare,
Then like, and love, and never feare.

164

XXVIII.

[So quicke, so hot, so mad is thy fond sute]

So quicke, so hot, so mad is thy fond sute,
So rude, so tedious growne, in urging mee,
That faine I would with losse make thy tongue mute,
And yeeld some little grace to quiet thee:
An houre with thee I care not to converse,
For I would not be counted too perverse.

But roofes too hot would prove for men all fire,
And hils too high for my unused pace;
The grove is charg'd with thornes and the bold bryer;
Gray Snakes the meadowes shrowde in every place:
A yellow Frog, alas, will fright me so,
As I should start and tremble as I goe.

Since then I can on earth no fit roome finde,
In heaven I am resolv'd with you to meete;
Till then, for Hopes sweet sake, rest your tir'd minde,
And not so much as see mee in the streete:
A heavenly meeting one day wee shall have,
But never, as you dreame, in bed, or grave.

165

XXIX. [Shall I then hope when faith is fled?]

Shall I then hope when faith is fled?
Can I seeke love when hope is gone?
Or can I live when Love is dead?
Poorely hee lives, that can love none.
Her vowes are broke, and I am free;
Shee lost her faith in loosing mee.

When I compare mine owne events,
When I weigh others like annoy,
All doe but heape up discontents
That on a beauty build their joy.
Thus I of all complaine, since shee
All faith hath lost in loosing mee.

So my deare freedome have I gain'd
Through her unkindnesse and disgrace;
Yet could I ever live enchain'd,
As shee my service did embrace.
But shee is chang'd, and I am free:
Faith failing her, Love dyed in mee.

167

THE FOURTH BOOKE

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, Mr. JOHN MOUNSON,

Sonne and Heyre to Sir Thomas Mounson, Knight and Baronet.

On you th'affections of your Fathers Friends,
With his Inheritance by right descends;
But you your gracefull youth so wisely guide,
That his you hold, and purchase much beside.
Love is the fruit of Vertue, for whose sake
Men onely liking each to other take.
If sparkes of vertue shin'd not in you then,
So well how could you winne the hearts of men?
And, since that honour and well-suted Prayse
Is Vertues Golden Spurre, let mee now rayse
Unto an act mature your tender age,
This halfe commending to your Patronage:
Which from your Noble Fathers, but one side,
Ordain'd to doe you honour, doth divide.
And so my love betwixt you both I part,
On each side placing you as neare my heart.

Yours ever, THOMAS CAMPIAN.

169

I. [Leave prolonging thy distresse]

Leave prolonging thy distresse:
All delayes afflict the dying.
Many lost sighes long I spent, to her for mercy crying;
But now, vaine mourning, cease:
Ile dye, and mine owne griefes release.

Thus departing from this light
To those shades that end all sorrow,
Yet a small time of complaint, a little breath Ile borrow,
To tell my once delight
I dye alone through her despight.

II. [Respect my faith, regard my service past]

Respect my faith, regard my service past;
The hope you wing'd call home to you at last.
Great prise it is that I in you shall gaine,
So great for you hath been my losse and paine.
My wits I spent and time for you alone,
Observing you and loosing all for one.

Some rais'd to rich estates in this time are,
That held their hopes to mine inferiour farre:
Such scoffing mee, or pittying me, say thus,
Had hee not lov'd, he might have liv'd like us.
O then, deare sweet, for love and pitties sake,
My faith reward, and from me scandall take.

170

III. [Thou joy'st, fond boy, to be by many loved]

Thou joy'st, fond boy, to be by many loved,
To have thy beauty of most dames approved.
For this dost thou thy native worth disguise
And play'st the Sycophant t'observe their eyes.
Thy glasse thou councel'st more t'adorne thy skin,
That first should schoole thee to be fayre within.

'Tis childish to be caught with Pearle, or Amber,
And woman-like too much to cloy the chamber;
Youths should the Field affect, heate their rough Steedes,
Their hardned nerves to fit for better deedes.
Is't not more joy strong Holds to force with swords,
Then womens weakenesse take with lookes or words?

Men that doe noble things all purchase glory:
One man for one brave Act hath prov'd a story:
But if that one tenne thousand Dames o'ercame,
Who would record it, if not to his shame?
'Tis farre more conquest with one to live true
Then every houre to triumph Lord of new.

IV. [Vaile, love, mine eyes, O hide from me]

Vaile, love, mine eyes, O hide from me
The plagues that charge the curious minde:
If beauty private will not be,
Suffice it yet that she proves kinde.
Who can usurp heav'ns light alone?
Stars were not made to shine on one.

Griefes past recure fooles try to heale,
That greater harmes on lesse inflict;
The pure offend by too much zeale,
Affection should not be too strict.
Hee that a true embrace will finde
To beauties faults must still be blinde.

171

V. [Ev'ry Dame affects good fame, what ere her doings be]

Ev'ry Dame affects good fame, what ere her doings be,
But true prayse is Vertues Bayes, which none may weare but she.
Borrow'd guise fits not the wise, a simple look is best;
Native grace becomes a face, though ne'er so rudely drest.
Now such new found toyes are sold, these women to disguise,
That, before the yeare growes old, the newest fashion dyes.

Dames of yore contended more in goodnesse to exceede
Then in pride to be envi'd for that which least they neede:
Little Lawne then serv'd the Pawne, if Pawne at all there were;
Home-spun thread, and houshold bread, then held out all the yeare.
But th'attyres of women now weare out both house and land;
That the wives in silkes may flow, at ebbe the Good-men stand.

Once agen, Astraea, then, from heav'n to earth descend,
And vouchsafe in their behalfe these errours to amend:
Aid from heav'n must make all eev'n, things are so out of frame,
For let man strive all he can, hee needes must please his Dame.
Happy man, content that gives, and what hee gives enjoyes;
Happy Dame, content that lives, and breakes no sleepe for toyes.

173

VI. [So sweet is thy discourse to me]

So sweet is thy discourse to me,
And so delightfull is thy sight,
As I taste nothing right but thee.
O why invented Nature light?
Was it alone for beauties sake,
That her grac't words might better take?

No more can I old joyes recall:
They now to me become unknowne,
Not seeming to have beene at all.
Alas, how soone is this love growne
To such a spreading height in me
As with it all must shadowed be!

174

VII. [There is a Garden in her face]

There is a Garden in her face,
Where Roses and white Lillies grow;
A heav'nly paradice is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.
There Cherries grow, which none may buy
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.

Those Cherries fayrely doe enclose
Of Orient Pearle a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter showes,
They looke like Rose-buds fill'd with snow.
Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy,
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.

Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;
Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,
Threatning with piercing frownes to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred Cherries to come nigh,
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.

176

VIII. [To his sweet Lute Apollo sung the motions of the Spheares]

To his sweet Lute Apollo sung the motions of the Spheares,
The wondrous order of the Stars, whose course divides the yeares,
And all the Mysteries above:
But none of this could Midas move,
Which purchast him his Asses eares.

Then Pan with his rude Pipe began the Country-wealth t'advance,
To boast of Cattle, flockes of Sheepe, and Goates on hils that dance,
With much more of this churlish kinde:
That quite transported Midas minde,
And held him rapt as in a trance.

This wrong the God of Musicke scorn'd from such a sottish Judge,
And bent his angry bow at Pan, which made the Piper trudge:
Then Midas head he so did trim
That ev'ry age yet talkes of him
And Phoebus right revenged grudge.

177

IX. [Young and simple though I am]

Young and simple though I am,
I have heard of Cupids name:
Guesse I can what thing it is
Men desire when they doe kisse.
Smoake can never burne, they say,
But the flames that follow may.

I am not so foule or fayre
To be proud, nor to despayre;
Yet my lips have oft observ'd,
Men that kisse them presse them hard,
As glad lovers use to doe
When their new met loves they wooe.

Faith, 'tis but a foolish minde,
Yet, me thinkes, a heate I finde,
Like thirst longing, that doth bide
Ever on my weaker side,
Where they say my heart doth move.
Venus, grant it be not love.

If it be, alas, what then?
Were not women made for men?
As good 'twere a thing were past,
That must needes be done at last.
Roses that are over-blowne
Growe lesse sweet, then fall alone.

Yet nor Churle, nor silken Gull
Shall my Mayden blossome pull:
Who shall not I soone can tell;
Who shall, would I could as well:
This I know, who ere hee be,
Love hee must, or flatter me.

178

X. [Love me or not, love her I must or dye]

Love me or not, love her I must or dye;
Leave me or not, follow her needs must I.
O, that her grace would my wisht comforts give:
How rich in her, how happy should I live!

All my desire, all my delight should be
Her to enjoy, her to unite to mee:
Envy should cease, her would I love alone:
Who loves by lookes, is seldome true to one.

Could I enchant, and that it lawfull were,
Her would I charme softly that none should heare.
But love enforc'd rarely yeelds firme content;
So would I love that neyther should repent.

XI. [What meanes this folly, now to brave it so]

What meanes this folly, now to brave it so,
And then to use submission?
Is that a friend that straight can play the foe?
Who loves on such condition?

Though Bryers breede Roses, none the Bryer affect,
But with the flowre are pleased.
Love onely loves delight and soft respect:
He must not be diseased.

These thorny passions spring from barren breasts,
Or such as neede much weeding.
Love onely loves delight and soft respect;
But sends them not home bleeding.

Command thy humour, strive to give content,
And shame not loves profession.
Of kindnesse never any could repent
That made choyse with discretion.

179

XII. [Deare, if I with guile would guild a true intent]

Deare, if I with guile would guild a true intent,
Heaping flattries that in heart were never meant,
Easely could I then obtaine
What now in vaine I force;
Fals-hood much doth gaine,
Truth yet holds the better course.

Love forbid that through dissembling I should thrive,
Or, in praysing you, my selfe of truth deprive:
Let not your high thoughts debase
A simple truth in me;
Great is beauties grace,
Truth is yet as fayre as shee.

Prayse is but the winde of pride, if it exceedes;
Wealth, pris'd in it selfe, no outward value needes.
Fayre you are, and passing fayre;
You know it, and 'tis true:
Yet let none despayre
But to finde as fayre as you.

180

XIII. [O Love, where are thy Shafts, thy Quiver, and thy Bow?]

O Love, where are thy Shafts, thy Quiver, and thy Bow?
Shall my wounds onely weepe, and hee ungaged goe?
Be just, and strike him, to, that dares contemne thee so.

No eyes are like to thine, though men suppose thee blinde,
So fayre they levell when the marke they list to finde:
Then strike, o strike the heart that beares the cruell minde.

Is my fond sight deceived? or doe I Cupid spye
Close ayming at his breast, by whom despis'd I dye?
Shoot home, sweet Love, and wound him, that hee may not flye!

O then we both will sit in some unhaunted shade,
And heale each others wound which Love hath justly made:
O hope, o thought too vaine, how quickly dost thou fade!

At large he wanders still, his heart is free from paine,
While secret sighes I spend, and teares, but all in vaine:
Yet, Love, thou know'st, by right I should not thus complaine.

181

XIV. [Beauty is but a painted hell]

Beauty is but a painted hell:
Aye me, aye me,
Shee wounds them that admire it,
Shee kils them that desire it.
Give her pride but fuell,
No fire is more cruell.

Pittie from ev'ry heart is fled,
Aye me, aye me;
Since false desire could borrow
Teares of dissembled sorrow,
Constant vowes turne truthlesse,
Love cruell, Beauty ruthlesse.

Sorrow can laugh, and Fury sing,
Aye me, aye me;
My raving griefes discover
I liv'd too true a lover:
The first step to madnesse
Is the excesse of sadnesse.

182

XV. [Are you what your faire lookes expresse?]

Are you what your faire lookes expresse?
Oh then be kinde:
From law of Nature they digresse
Whose forme sutes not their minde:
Fairenesse seene in th'outward shape
Is but th'inward beauties Ape.

Eyes that of earth are mortall made,
What can they view?
All's but a colour or a shade,
And neyther alwayes true.
Reasons sight, that is eterne,
Ev'n the substance can discerne.

Soule is the Man; for who will so
The body name?
And to that power all grace we owe
That deckes our living frame.
What, or how, had housen bin,
But for them that dwell therein?

Love in the bosome is begot,
Not in the eyes;
No beauty makes the eye more hot,
Her flames the spright surprise:
Let our loving mindes then meete,
For pure meetings are most sweet.

183

XVI. [Since she, ev'n shee, for whom I liv'd]

Since she, ev'n shee, for whom I liv'd,
Sweet she by Fate from me is torne,
Why am not I of sence depriv'd,
Forgetting I was ever borne?
Why should I languish, hating light?
Better to sleepe an endlesse night.

Be 't eyther true, or aptly fain'd,
That some of Lethes water write,
'Tis their best med'cine that are pain'd
All thought to loose of past delight.
O would my anguish vanish so!
Happy are they that neyther know.

184

XVII. [I must complain, yet doe enjoy my Love]

I must complain, yet doe enjoy my Love;
She is too faire, too rich in lovely parts:
Thence is my grief, for Nature, while she strove
With all her graces and divinest Arts
To form her too too beautifull of hue,
Shee had no leasure left to make her true.

Should I, agriev'd, then wish shee were lesse fayre?
That were repugnant to mine owne desires:
Shee is admir'd, new lovers still repayre;
That kindles daily loves forgetfull fires.
Rest, jealous thoughts, and thus resolve at last:
Shee hath more beauty then becomes the chast.

186

XVIII. [Think'st thou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning?]

Think'st thou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning?
Parats so can learne to prate, our speech by pieces gleaning:
Nurces teach their children so about the time of weaning.

Learne to speake first, then to wooe: to wooing much pertayneth:
Hee that courts us, wanting Arte, soone falters when he fayneth,
Lookes a-squint on his discourse, and smiles when hee complaineth.

Skilfull Anglers hide their hookes, fit baytes for every season;
But with crooked pins fish thou, as babes doe that want reason;
Gogians onely can be caught with such poore trickes of treason.

Ruth forgive me, if I err'd from humane hearts compassion
When I laught sometimes too much to see thy foolish fashion:
But, alas, who lesse could doe that found so good occasion?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

188

XX. [Turne all thy thoughts to eyes]

Turne all thy thoughts to eyes,
Turne all thy haires to eares,
Change all thy friends to spies,
And all thy joyes to feares:
True Love will yet be free,
In spite of Jealousie.

Turne darknesse into day,
Conjectures into truth,
Beleeve what th'envious say,
Let age interpret youth:
True love will yet be free,
In spite of Jealousie.

Wrest every word and looke,
Racke ev'ry hidden thought,
Or fish with golden hooke,
True love cannot be caught:
For that will still be free,
In spite of Jealousie.

189

XXI. [If any hath the heart to kill]

If any hath the heart to kill,
Come rid me of this wofull paine.
For while I live I suffer still
This cruell torment all in vaine:
Yet none alive but one can guesse
What is the cause of my distresse.

Thanks be to heav'n, no grievous smart,
No maladies my limbes annoy;
I beare a sound and sprightfull heart,
Yet live I quite depriv'd of joy:
Since what I had, in vaine I crave,
And what I had not, now I have.

A Love I had, so fayre, so sweet,
As ever wanton eye did see.
Once by appointment wee did meete;
Shee would, but ah, it would not be:
She gave her heart, her hand shee gave;
All did I give, shee nought could have.

What Hagge did then my powers forespeake,
That never yet such taint did feele?
Now shee rejects me as one weake,
Yet am I all compos'd of steele.
Ah, this is it my heart doth grieve:
Now though shee sees, shee'le not believe!

190

XXII. [Beauty, since you so much desire]

Beauty, since you so much desire
To know the place of Cupids fire:
About you somewhere doth it rest,
Yet never harbour'd in your brest,
Nor gout-like in your heele or toe;
What foole would seeke Loves flame so low?
But a little higher, but a little higher,
There, there, o there lyes Cupids fire.

Thinke not, when Cupid most you scorne,
Men judge that you of Ice were borne;
For, though you cast love at your heele,
His fury yet sometime you feele;
And where-abouts if you would know,
I tell you still, not in your toe:
But a little higher, but a little higher,
There, there, o there lyes Cupids fire.

192

XXIII. [Your faire lookes urge my desire]

Your faire lookes urge my desire:
Calme it, sweet, with love.
Stay, o why will you retire?
Can you churlish prove?
If Love may perswade,
Loves pleasures, deare, deny not:
Here is a grove secur'd with shade;
O then be wise, and flye not.

Harke, the Birds delighted sing,
Yet our pleasure sleepes.
Wealth to none can profit bring,
Which the miser keepes:
O come, while we may,
Let's chayne Love with embraces;
Wee have not all times time to stay,
Nor safety in all places.

What ill finde you now in this?
Or who can complaine?
There is nothing done amisse,
That breedes no man payne.
'Tis now flowry May,
But ev'n in cold December,
When all these leaves are blowne away,
This place shall I remember.

193

XXIV. [Faine would I wed a faire yong man that day and night could please mee]

Faine would I wed a faire yong man that day and night could please mee,
When my mind or body grieved, that had the powre to ease mee.
Maids are full of longing thoughts that breed a bloudlesse sickenesse,
And that, oft I heare men say, is onely cur'd by quicknesse.
Oft have I beene woo'd and prai'd, but never could be moved:
Many for a day or so I have most dearely loved,
But this foolish mind of mine straight loaths the thing resolved.
If to love be sinne in mee, that sinne is soone absolved.
Sure, I thinke I shall at last flye to some holy Order;
When I once am setled there, then can I flye no farther.
Yet I would not dye a maid, because I had a mother:
As I was by one brought forth, I would bring forth another.

FINIS.

195

OCCASIONAL POEMS

196

In honour of the Author by Tho: Campion Doctor in Physicke. To the Reader.
[_]

Prefixed to Barnabe Barnes's Foure Bookes of Offices: Enabling Privat persons for the special service of all good Princes and Policies, 1606.

Though neither thou doost keepe the Keyes of State,
Nor yet the counsels (Reader) what of that?
Though th'art no Law-pronouncer mark't by fate,
Nor field-commander (Reader) what of that?
Blanch not this Booke; for if thou mind'st to be
Vertuous, and honest, it belongs to thee.
Here is the Scoole of Temperance, and Wit,
Of Justice, and all formes that tend to it;
Here Fortitude doth teach to live and die,
Then, Reader, love this Booke, or rather buy.

197

To the Worthy Author.
[_]

Prefixed to Ayres (1609) by Alfonso Ferrabosco the Younger (ca. 1580–1628).

Musicks maister, and the offspring
Of rich Musicks Father,
Old Alfonso's Image living,
These faire flowers you gather
Scatter through the Brittish soile;
Give thy fame free wing,
And gaine the merit of thy toyle:
Wee, whose loves affect to praise thee,
Beyond thine owne deserts can never raise thee.

By T. Campion, Doctor in Physicke.

199

Of this Ensuing Discourse.
[_]

Prefixed to A Briefe Discourse of the true (but neglected) use of Charact'ring the Degrees by their Perfection, Imperfection, and Diminution in Measurable Musicke, against the Common Practise and Custome of these Times, published in 1614 by Thomas Ravenscroft (ca. 1582–1635)

Markes that did limit Lands in former times
None durst remove; so much the common good
Prevail'd with all men; 'twas the worst of crimes.
The like in Musicke may be understood,
For That the treasure of the Soule is, next
To the rich Store-house of Divinity:
Both comfort Soules that are with care perplext,
And set the Spirit Both from passions free.
The Markes that limit Musicke heere are taught,
So fixt of ould, which none by right can change,
Though Use much alteration hath wrought,
To Musickes Fathers that would now seeme strange.
The best embrace, which herein you may finde,
And th'Author praise for his good Worke and Minde.

THO: CAMPION.

University of Virginia Library

SONGS AND POEMS[_] Square brackets denote editorial additions or emendations

SONGS APPENDED TO SIDNEY'S ASTROPHEL AND STELLA

CANTO PRIMO.

CANTO SECUNDO.

CANTO TERTIO.

CANTO QUARTO.

CANTO QUINTO.

A BOOKE OF AYRES, [_] Set foorth to be song to the Lute, Orpherian, and Base Violl, by Philip Rosseter Lutenist: And are to be solde at his house in Fleetstreete neere to the Gray-hound. 1601

I.

[My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love]

II.

[Though you are yoong and I am olde]

III.

[I care not for these Ladies]

IV.

[Followe thy faire sunne, unhappy shaddowe]

V.

[My love hath vowd hee will forsake mee]

VI.

[When to her lute Corrina sings]

VII.

[Turne backe, you wanton flyer]

VIII.

[It fell on a sommers day]

IX.

[The Sypres curten of the night is spread]

X.

[Follow your Saint, follow with accents sweet]

XI.

[Faire, if you expect admiring]

XII.

[Thou art not faire, for all thy red and white]

XIII.

[See where she flies enrag'd from me]

XIV.

[Blame not my cheeks, though pale with love they be]

XV.

[When the God of merrie love]

XVI.

[Mistris, since you so much desire]

XVII.

[Your faire lookes enflame my desire]

XVIII.

[The man of life upright]

XIX.

[Harke, al you ladies that do sleep]

XX.

[When thou must home to shades of under ground]

XXI. Come, let us sound with melody the praises

TWO BOOKES OF AYRES.

THE FIRST Contayning Divine and Morall Songs: THE SECOND, Light Conceits of Lovers. [_] To be sung to the Lute and Viols, in two, three, and foure Parts: or by one Voyce to an INSTRUMENT. Composed By Thomas Campian.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, BOTH in Birth and Vertue, FRANCIS, Earle of CUMBERLAND.

THE FIRST BOOKE

[Songs of 4. Parts.]

I.

[Author of light, revive my dying spright]

II.

[The man of life upright]

III.

[Where are all thy beauties now, all harts enchayning?]

IV.

[Out of my soules deapth to thee my cryes have sounded]

V.

[View mee, Lord, a worke of thine]

VI.

[Bravely deckt, come forth, bright day]

VII.

[To Musicke bent is my retyred minde]

VIII.

[Tune thy Musicke to thy hart]

IX.

[Most sweet and pleasing are thy wayes, O God]

X.

[Wise men patience never want]

XI.

[Never weather-beaten Saile more willing bent to shore]

XII.

[Lift up to heav'n, sad wretch, thy heavy spright]

XIII.

SONGS AND POEMS
[_]

Square brackets denote editorial additions or emendations

A BOOKE OF AYRES,
[_]

Set foorth to be song to the Lute, Orpherian, and Base Violl, by Philip Rosseter Lutenist: And are to be solde at his house in Fleetstreete neere to the Gray-hound.

1601

XXI.
Come, let us sound with melody the praises

THE FIRST Contayning Divine and Morall Songs: THE SECOND, Light Conceits of Lovers.
[_]

To be sung to the Lute and Viols, in two, three, and foure Parts: or by one Voyce to an INSTRUMENT.

Composed By Thomas Campian.

the untimely death of Prince Henry. Worded by THO. CAMPION.
[_]

And set forth to bee sung with one voyce to the Lute, or Violl: By JOHN COPRARIO.

1613