Thomas Campion
Of Neptune's empire let us sing, At whose command the waves obey; To whom the rivers tribute pay,
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.
When to her lute Corinna sings, Her voice revives the leaden strings, And doth in highest notes appear
Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! Though thou be black as night, And she made all of light,
Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet; Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet. There, wrapp'd in cloud of sorrow, pity move,
The man of life upright, Whose guiltless heart is free From all dishonest deeds,
An imitation of Catallus My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love, And though the sager sort our deeds reprove,
Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, Never tir'd pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more, Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:
Rose-cheeked Laura, come, Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's Silent music, either other
There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place,
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,
When thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admir'd guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
Now winter nights enlarge The number of their hours, And clouds their storms discharge
