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Thomas Campian (Campion) (1567 - 1620)
From the Rosseter’s ‘Booke of Ayres’ (1601)
My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love.
And, though the sager sort our dids 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 sleep one ever-during night.
If all would lead their lives in love like me,
Then bloody swords and armour 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 vex’d 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.
Though you are young and I am old,
Though your veins hot and my blood cold,
Though youth is moist and age is dry,
Yet embers live when flames do die.
The tender graft is eas’ly broke,
But who shall shake the sturdy oak?
You are more fresh and fair than I,
Yet stubs do live, when flow’rs do die.
Thou, that thy youth dost vainly boast,
Know, buds are soonest nipp’d with frost,
Think that thy fortune still doth cry:
Thou fool, to-morrow thou must die.
I care not for these ladies that must be woo’d and pray’d;
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 flow’rs;
But if we love these ladies, we must give golden show’rs.
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 bow’r of willows, of moss and leaves unbougth,
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.
When to her lute Corrina sings
When to her lute Corrina sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth 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.
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,
Ev’n from my heart the strings do break.
Thou art not fair for all thy red and white,
For all those rosy ornaments in thee.
Thou art not sweet though made of mere delight,
Nor fair nor sweet, unless thou pity me.
I will not soothe thy fancies. Thou shalt prove
That beauty is no beauty without love.
Yet love me not, nor seek not to allure
My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine.
Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,
I’ll not be wrapp’d up in those arms of thine.
Now show it if thou be a woman right,
Embrace and kiss and love me in despite.
Blame not my cheeks, though pale with love they be;
The kindly heat unto my heart is flown
To cherish it that is dismay’d by thee,
Who art so cruel and unsteadfast grown.
For Nature, call’d for by distressed hearts,
Neglects and quite forsakes the outward parts.
But they whose cheeks with careless blood are stain’d,
Nurse not one spark of love within their hearts;
And when they woo they speak with passion feign’d,
For their fat love lies in their outward parts;
But in their breasts where Love his court should hold,
Poor Cupid sits, and blows his nails for cold.
Hark, all you ladies that do sleep,
The fairy queen Proserpina
Bids you awake and pity them that weep.
You may do in the dark
What the day doth forbid.
Fear not the dogs that bark;
Night will have all hid.
But if you let your lovers moan,
The fairy queen Proserpina
Will send abroad her fairies every one
That shall pinch black and blue
Your white hands and fair arms,
That did not kindly rue
Your paramours’ harms.
In myrtle arbours on the downs,
The fairy queen Proserpina
This night by moonshine, leading merry rounds,
Holds a watch with sweet Love,
Down the dale, up the hill,
No plaints or groans may move
Their holy vigil.
All you that will hold watch with Love,
The fairy queen Proserpina
Will make you fairer than Dione’s dove.
Roses red, lilies white,
And the clear damask hue
Shall on your cheeks alight.
Love will adorn you.
All you that love or lov’d before,
The fairy queen Proserpina
Bids you increase that loving humour more.
They that yet have not fed
On delight amorous,
She vows that they shall lead
Apes in Avernus.
When thou must home to shades of underground,
And there arriv’d, a new admired guest,
The beauteous spirits do ingirt thee round,
White Iope, blithe Helen and the rest,
To hear the stories of thy finish’d love
From that smooth tongue, whose music hell can move.
Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
Of masks and revels which sweet youth did make,
Of tourneys and great challengers of knights,
And all these triumphs for thy beauty’s sake.
When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell how thou didst murder me.
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