The Garden

THERE is a garden in her face,

Where roses and white lilies grow;

A heavenly paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.

These cherries grow which none may buy,

Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearl a double row,

Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rosebuds filled with snow.

Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,

Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;

Her brows like bended bows do stand,

Threatening with piercing frowns to kill

All that attempt with eye or hand

Those sacred cherries to come nigh,

Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Thomas Campion

Thrice Toss Those Oaken Ashes in the Air

THRICE toss those oaken ashes in the air;

Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair;

Then thrice three times tie up this true love's knot,

And murmur soft: "She will, or she will not."

Go burn those poisonous weeds in yon blue fire,

These screech-owl's feathers and this prickling briar,

This cypress gathered at a dead man's grave,

That all thy fears and cares an end may have.

Then come, you fairies, dance with me a round;

Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound.

In vain are all the charms I can devise;

She hath an art to break them with her eyes.

Thomas Campion

Follow Thy Fair Sun

FOLLOW thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!

Though thou be black as night,

And she made all of light,

Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!

Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!

Though here thou liv'st disgraced,

And she in heaven is placed,

Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!

Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth!

That so have scorched thee

As thou still black must be

Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.

Follow here, while yet her glory shineth!

There comes a luckless night

That will dim all her light;

And this the black unhappy shade divineth.

Follow still, since so thy fates ordained!

The sun must have his shade,

Till both at once do fade,

The sun still proud, the shadow still disdained.

Thomas Campion

Now Winter Nights Enlarge

NOW winter nights enlarge

The number of their hours,

And clouds their storms discharge

Upon the airy towers.

Let now the chimneys blaze,

And cups o'erflow with wine;

Let well-tuned words amaze

With harmony divine.

Now yellow waxen lights

Shall wait on honey love,

While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights

Sleep's leaden spells remove.

This time doth well dispense

With lovers' long discourse;

Much speech hath some defence,

Though beauty no remorse.

All do not all things well;

Some measures comely tread,

Some knotted riddles tell,

Some poems smoothly read.

The summer hath his joys

And winter his delights;

Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,

They shorten tedious nights.

Thomas Campion

Amaryllis

I CARE not for these ladies that must be wooed and prayed;

Give me kind Amaryllis, the wanton country maid.

Nature Art disdaineth; her beauty is her own.

Her when we court and kiss, she cries: forsooth, let go!

But when we come where comfort is, she never will say no.

If I love Amaryllis, 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 nut-brown lass,

Who when we court and kiss, she cries: forsooth, let go!

But when we come where comfort is, she never will say no.

These ladies must have pillows and beds by strangers wrought.

Give me a bower of willows, of moss and leaves unbought,

And fresh Amaryllis with milk and honey fed,

Who when we court and kiss, she cries: forsooth, let go!

But when we come where comfort is, she never will say no.

Thomas Campion

Corinna

WHEN to her lute Corinna sings,

Her voice revives the leaden strings,

And doth in highest notes appear

As any challenged echo clear.

But when she doth of mourning speak,

Even with her sighs the strings do break.

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 sudden spring;

But if she doth of sorrow speak,

Even from my heart the strings do break.

Thomas Campion

My Sweetest Lesbia

MY sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,

And though the sager sort our deeds reprove,

Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive

Into their west, and straight again revive,

But soon as once set is our little light,

Then must we sleep one ever-during night.

If all would lead their lives in love like me,

Then bloody swords and armor should not be;

No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,

Unless alarm came from the camp of love.

But fools do live, and waste their little light,

And seek with pain their ever-during night.

When timely death my life and fortune ends,

Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends,

But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come

And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb;

And Lesbia, close up thou my little light,

And crown with love my ever-during night.

Thomas Campion

When Thou Must Home to Shades of Underground

WHEN thou must home to shades of underground,

And there arrived, a new admirèd guest,

The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,

White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,

To hear the stories of thy finished love

From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move,

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,

Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,

Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,

And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake;

When thou hast told these honors done to thee,

Then tell, Oh tell, how thou didst murther me.

Thomas Campion

Rose-cheeked Laura

ROSE-cheeked Laura, come,

Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's

Silent music, either other

Sweetly gracing.

Lovely forms do flow

From concert divinely framed;

Heav'n is music, and thy beauty's

Birth is heavenly.

These dull notes we sing

Discords need for helps to grace them;

Only beauty purely loving

Knows no discord,

But still moves delight,

Like clear springs renewed by flowing,

Ever perfect, ever in them-

Selves eternal.

Thomas Campion