Thomas Campion

Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow.

There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee, That she in peace may wake and pity me.

Sleep, angry beauty, sleep, and fear not me. For who a sleeping lion dares provoke?

Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee, When the ev'ning beams are set?

Lost is our freedom, When we submit to women so: Why do we need them, When in their best they work our woe?

Kind are her answers, But her performance keeps no day; Breaks time, as dancers From their own Music when they stray.

Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more.

Only beauty purely loving Knows no discord,But still moves delight, Like clear springs renewed by flowing, Ever perfect, ever in themselves eternal.

Lovely forms do flow From conceit divinely framed; Heaven is music, and thy beauty's Birth is heavenly.

Rose-cheeked Laura, come; Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty’s Silent music, either other Sweetly gracing.

What then is love but mourning? What desire, but a self-burning? Till she that hates doth love return, Thus will I mourn, thus will I sing, "Come away, come away, my darling."

Hark, all you ladies that do sleep; The fairy Queen Proserpina Bids you awake and pity them that weep.

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

He only can behold With unaffrighted eyes The horrors of the deep And terrors of the skies.

The man whose silent days In harmless joys are spent, Whom hopes cannot delude, Nor sorrow discontent:That man needs neither towers Nor armour for defence, Nor secret vaults to fly

The man of life upright, Whose guiltless heart is free From all dishonest deeds Or thought of vanity.

Follow your Saint, follow with accents sweet; Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet.

When to her lute Corinna sings, Her voice revives the leaden strings, And both in highest notes appear, As any challeng'd echo clear. But when she doth of mourning speak, Ev’n with her sighs the strings do break.

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.

Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, "Forsooth, let go!" But when we come where comfort is, She never will say no.

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.

My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love, And though the sager sort our deeds reprove, Let us not weigh them: Heav'n's great lamps do dive Into their west, and straight again revive, But soon as once set is our little light, Then must we …