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By me thou art prevented: 'Tis nothing to be plagued in h.e.l.l, But thus in Heaven tormented.
Clip me no more in those dear arms, Nor thy life's comfort call me, O these are but too powerful charms, And do but more enthral me!
But see how patient I am grown In all this coil about thee: Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, I cannot live without thee!
Michael Drayton [1563-1631]
HER SACRED BOWER
Where she her sacred bower adorns, The rivers clearly flow, The groves and meadows swell with flowers, The winds all gently blow.
Her sun-like beauty s.h.i.+nes so fair, Her spring can never fade: Who then can blame the life that strives To harbor in her shade?
Her grace I sought, her love I wooed; Her love thought to obtain; No time, no toil, no vow, no faith, Her wished grace can gain.
Yet truth can tell my heart is hers And her will I adore; And from that love when I depart, Let heaven view me no more!
Her roses with my prayers shall spring; And when her trees I praise, Their boughs shall blossom, mellow fruit Shall strew her pleasant ways.
The words of hearty zeal have power High wonders to effect; O, why should then her princely ear My words or zeal neglect?
If she my faith misdeems, or worth, Woe worth my hapless fate!
For though time can my truth reveal, That time will come too late.
And who can glory in the worth That cannot yield him grace?
Content in everything is not, Nor joy in every place.
But from her Bower of Joy since I Must now excluded be, And she will not relieve my cares, Which none can help but she; My comfort in her love shall dwell, Her love lodge in my breast, And though not in her bower, yet I Shall in her temple rest.
Thomas Campion [?--1619]
TO LESBIA After Catullus
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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 hea.r.s.e 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 [?--1619]
"LOVE ME OR NOT"
Love me or not, love her I must or die; Leave her or not, follow her needs must I.
O that her grace would my wished 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 me; Envy should cease, her would I love alone: Who loves by looks, is seldom true to one.
Could I enchant, and that it lawful were, Her would I charm softly that none should hear; But love enforced rarely yields firm content: So would I love that neither should repent.
Thomas Campion [?--1619]
"THERE IS NONE, O NONE BUT YOU"
There is none, O none but you, That from me estrange the sight, Whom mine eyes affect to view, And chained ears hear with delight.
Other beauties others move: In you I all graces find; Such is the effect of Love, To make them happy that are kind.
Women in frail beauty trust, Only seem you fair to me: Still prove truly kind and just, For that may not dissembled be.
Sweet, afford me then your sight, That, surveying all your looks, Endless volumes I may write, And fill the world with envied books:
Which, when after-ages view, All shall wonder and despair,-- Woman, to find a man so true, Or man, a woman half so fair!
Thomas Campion [?--1619]
OF CORINNA'S SINGING
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, E'en with her sighs, the strings do break.
And as her lute doth live or die, Led by her pa.s.sion, so must I!
For when of pleasure she doth sing, My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring: But if she doth of sorrow speak, E'en from my heart the strings do break.
Thomas Campion [?--1619]
"WERE MY HEART AS SOME MEN'S ARE"
Were my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me; But thy faults I curious find, and speak because I love thee: Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me.
Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting, Than the obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting: Friends.h.i.+p is the Gla.s.s of Truth, our hidden stains detecting.
When I use of eyes enjoy, and inward light of reason, Thy observer will I be and censor, but in season: Hidden mischief to conceal in State and Love is treason.
Thomas Campion [?--1619]
