Thomas Campion, The Works of Thomas Campion

Thomas Campion, The Works of Thomas Campion, Ed. Walter R. Davis, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. New York, 1970.

If all would lead their lives in love like mee,
Then bloudie swords and armour should not be,
(My sweetest Lesbia, from A Book of Ayres, 1601, 18)


I care not for these Ladies
That must be woods and praide,
Give me kind Amarillis
The wanton country maide;
Nature art disdaineth,
Her beauty is her owne;
Who when we court and kisse,
She cries, forsooth, let go:
But when we come where comfort is,
She never will say no.

(I care not for these Ladies, from A Book of Ayres, 1601, 22)


When to her lute Corrina sings,
Her voice revives the leaden stringes,
And doth in ighest noates appeare
As any challeng’d echo cleere;
But when she doth of mourning speake,
Ev’n with her sighes the strings do breake.
/
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 sodaine spring;
But if she doth of sorrow speake,
Ev’n from my hart the strings doe breake.

(When to her lute, from A Book of Ayres, 1601, 28; lute strings made from gut; challeng’d = aroused)


Thou art not faire, for all thy red and white,
For all those rosie ornaments in thee;
Thou art not sweet, though made of meer delight,
Nor faire nor sweet, unless thou pitie mee.

(Thou are not faire, from A Book of Ayres, 1601, 34)


The man of life upright,
…
The man whose silent dayes
In harmless joys are spent,
…
Hee only can behold
With unafrighted eyes
The horrours of the deepe,
And terrours of the Skies.
…
Good thoughts his onely friendes,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober Inine,
And quiet Pilgrimage.

(The man of life upright, from A Book of Ayres, 1601, 43)


Sing thy joy with thankes, and so thy sorrow:

(Tune thy Musicke to thy hart, from Two Bookes of Ayres; The First Contayning Divine and Morall Songs: The Second, Light Conceits of Lovers, 66)


Lighten, heavy hart, thy spright,
The joys recall that thence are fled;
Yeeld thy brest some living light:

(Lighten, heavy hart, thy spright, from Two Bookes of Ayres; The First Contayning Divine and Morall Songs: The Second, Light Conceits of Lovers, 79)


Her grace I sought, her love I wooed;
Her love though I obtaine,
No time, no toyle, now vow, no faith
Her wished grace can gaine.

[grace = sexual favors] (Where shee her sacred bowre adornes, from Two Bookes of Ayres; The First Contayning Divine and Morall Songs: The Second, Light Conceits of Lovers, 91)


Women, courted, have the hand
To discard what they distaste:

(Faine would I my love disclose, from Two Bookes of Ayres; The First Contayning Divine and Morall Songs: The Second, Light Conceits of Lovers, 92)


Young am I, and farre from guile;
The more is my woe the while:

(Good men, shew, if you can tell, from Two Bookes of Ayres; The First Contayning Divine and Morall Songs: The Second, Light Conceits of Lovers, 95)


As if the world were borne anew
To gratifie the Spring.

(The peacefull westerne winde, from Two Bookes of Ayres; The First Contayning Divine and Morall Songs: The Second, Light Conceits of Lovers, 100)


My churle vowes no man shall sent [scent] his sweet Rose:

(A secret love or two, I must confesse, from Two Bookes of Ayres; The First Contayning Divine and Morall Songs: The Second, Light Conceits of Lovers, 111)

Henry Frederick, Prince of Wales (1594-1612) held for his time some of the peculiar fascination that Sir Philip Sidney had held for the previous generation—much increased, of course, by the promise of his eventual kingship. … He combined great personal charm with a rather fervent religious nature, learning toward the kind of strict Protestant position represented by his favorite divine and chaplain Joseph Hall, and taking a far more active interest in the European Protestant cause than his father ever had… For these reasons he viewed coldly prospective French and Spanish marriages for himself and welcomed with you the match of his sister Elizabeth with Frederic, … He died on November 6, 1612, of typhoid fever aggravated by overindulgence in exercise. (114)

(And like a well tun’d chime his carriage was
Full of coelestiall witchcraft, winning all
To admiration and love personal.

(An Elegie upon the untimely death of Prince Henry, 117)


In harmony hee spake, and trod the ground
In more proportion then the measur’d sound.

(An Elegie upon the untimely death of Prince Henry, 117)


Be thou then my beauty named,
Since thy will is to be mine:
For by that am I enflamed,
Which on all alike doth shine.
Others may the light admire,
I onely truly feele the fire.
/
But, if lofty titles move thee,
Challenge then a Sov’raignes place:
Say I honour when I love thee,
Let me call thy kindnesse grace.
State and Love things divers bee,
Yet will we teach them to agree.
/
Or, if this be not sufficing,
Be thou stil’d my Goddesse then:
I will love thee sacrificing,
In thine honour Hymnes Ile pen.
To be thine, what canst thou more?
Ile love thee, serve thee, and adore.

(Be thou then my beauty named, The Third and Fourth Book of Ayres, 155)


Sleepe, angry beauty, sleep, and feare not me,
For who a sleeping Lyon dares provoke?
It shall suffice me here to sit and see
Those lips shut up that never kindely spoke.

(Sleepe angry beauty, sleep and feare not me, The Third and Fourth Book of Ayres, 161)


Yet, be just and constant still; Love may beget a wonder,
Not unlike a Summers frost, or Winters fatall thunder:

(Silly boy, ’tis ful Moone yet, thy night as day shines clearly, The Third and Fourth Book of Ayres, 162)


’Tis childish to be caught with Pearle, or Amber,
And woman-like too much to cloy [crowd] the charmer;
Youth should the Field affect, heate their rough Steedes,
Their hardness nerves to fit for better deedes.

(Thou joyst, fond boy, to be by many loved, The Third and Fourth Book of Ayres, 170)


To his sweet Lute Apollo sung the motions of the Spheares,
The wondrous order of the Stars, whose course divides the yeares,
And all the Mysteries above:
But none of this could Midas move,
Which purchast him his Asses eares.
/
Then Pan with his rude Pipe began the Country-wealth t’advance,
To boast of Cattle, flockes of Sheepe, and Goates on hils that dance,
With much more of this churlish kinde:
That quite transported Midas minde,
And held him rapt as in a trance.
/
This wrong the God of Musicke scorn’d form such a sottish Judge,
And bent his angry bow at Pan, which made the Piper trudge:
Then Midas head he so did trim
That ev’ry age yet talks of him
And Phoebus right revenged grudge.

(To his sweet Lute Apollo sung the motions of the Spheare, The Third and Fourth Book of Ayres, 176)


Yet nor Churle, nor silken Gull
Shall my Mayden blossom pull:
Who shall not I soone can tell;
Who shall, wouldi could as well:
This I know, who ere hee be,
Love hee must, or flatter me.

(Young and simple though I am, The Third and Fourth Book of Ayres, 177)


O Love…
Be just, and strike him, to, that dares contemne thee so.
…
O then we both will sit in some unhaunted shade,
And heale each others wound which Love hath justly made:

(O Love, where are thy Shafts, thy Quiver, and thy Bow? The Third and Fourth Book of Ayres, 180)


Learne to speake first, then to wooe: to wooing much pertayneth:
Hee that courts us, wanting Arte, soone falters when he fayneth,

(Think’st thou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning? The Third and Fourth Book of Ayres, 186)


Turne all thy thoughts to eyes,
Turne all thy haires to eares,
Change all thy friends to spies,
And all thy joys to feares:
True Love will yet be free,
In spite of Jealousie.
/
Turne darknesse into day,
Conjectures into truth,
Beleeve what th’ envious say,
Let age interpret youth:
True love will yet be free,
In spite of Jealousie.
/
Wrest every word and looke,
Racke ev’ry hidden thought,
Or fish with golden hooke,
True love cannot be caught:
For that will still be free,
In spite of Jealousie.

(Turne all thy thoughts to eyes, The Third and Fourth Book of Ayres, 188)


Beauty, since you so much desire
To know the place of Cupids fire:
About you somewhere doth it rest,
Yet never harbour’d in your brest,
Nor gout-like in your heele or toe;
What foole would seeke Loves flame so low?
But a little high, but a little higher,
There, there, o there lyes Cupids fire.
/
Thinke not, when Cupid most you scorne,
Men judge that you of Ice were borne;
For, though you cast love at your heele,
His fury yet sometime you feele;
And wherer-abouts if you would know,
I tell you still, not in your toe:
But a little high, but a little higher,
There, there, o there lyes Cupids fire.

(Beauty, since you so much desire, The Third and Fourth Book of Ayres, 190)


Here is a grove secur’d with shade;
O then be wise, and flye not.
/
Harke, the Birds delighted sing,
Yet our pleasure sleepes.

(Your faire looks urge my desire, The Third and Fourth Book of Ayres, 192)