Lyrics to Thomas Campion Songs.
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When Thou Must Home What if a Day? Follow thy faire Sunne Follow Your Saint Fire,Fire,Fire
A Booke of Ayres  XXI. A Booke of Ayres  II. My loue hath vowd hee will forsake mee Turn Back, You Wanton Flyer The Man of Life Upright
A Booke of Ayres   XI. My Sweetest Lesbia When To Her Lute Corinna Sings Beauty Is But A Painted Hell

When Thou Must Home note animate Midi Music 

When Thou must home to shades of under ground, 
And there ariv'd, a newe admired guest, 
The beauteous spirits do ingirt thee round, 
White Iope, blith Helen, and the rest, 
To heare the stories of thy finisht love, 
From that smoothe toong whose musicke hell can move: 

Then wilt thou speake of banqueting delights, 
Of masks and revels which sweete youth did make, 
Of Turnies and great challenges of knights, 
And all these triumphes for thy beauties sake: 
When thou hast told these honours done to thee, 
Then tell, O tell how thou didst murther me. 
-Thomas Campion 

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What If a Day  Midi Music 

What if a day, or a month, or a yeare, 
Crown thy delights with a thousand sweet contentlings? 
Cannot a chance of a night or an howre 
Crosse thy desires with as many sad tormentings? 

Fortune, honor, beauty, youth are but blossoms dying; 
Wanton pleasure, doating love, 
Are but shadowes flying, 
All our joyes are but toyes, 
Idle thoughts deceiving; 
None have power of an howre 
In their lives breaving. 

Earthes but a point to the world, and a man 
Is but a point to the worlds compared centure: 
Shall then a point of a point be so vaine 
As to triumph in a seely points adventure? 

All is hassard that we have; 
There is nothing biding; 
Dayes of pleasure are like streames 
Through Faire meadowes gliding. 
Weale and woe, time doth goe, 
Time is never turning: 
Secret fates guide our states, 
Both in mirth and mourning 
-Thomas  Campion 
 

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Follow thy faire Sunne  Midi Music

Follow thy faire sunne ,unhappy shaddowe: 
Though thou be blacke as night, 
And she made all of light, 
Yet follow thy faire sunne, unhappie shaddowe. 

Follow her whose light thy light depriveth: 
Though here thou liv'st disgrac't, 
And she in heaven is plac't, 
Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth. 

Follow those pure beames whose beautie burneth, 
That so have scorched the, 
As thou still blacke must bee, 
Til her kind beames thy black to brightness turneth, 

Follow her while yet her glorie shineth: 
There comes a luckles night, 
That will dim all her light; 
And this the black unhappie shade devineth. 

Follow still since go thy fates ordained: 
Th Sunne must have his shade, 
Till both at once doe fade, 
The Sun still prov'd, the shadow still disdained. 
 

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Follow Your Saint  Midi Music 

Follow your Saint,follow with accents sweet, 
Haste you sad noates fall at her flying feete; 
There wrapt in cloud of sorrowe, pitie move, 
And tell the ravisher of my soule I perish for her love, 
But if she scorns my never-seasing paine, 
Then burst with sighing in her sight, and nere returne againe. 

All that I soong still to her praise did tend, 
Still she was first, still she my songs did end. 
Yet she my love and Musicke both doeth flie, 
The Musicke that her Eccho is, and beauties simpathethie; 
Then let my Noates pursue her scornfull flight: 
It shall suffice hat they were breath'd and dyed, for her delight. 

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Fire Fire Fire  Midi Music 

Fire, fire, fire, fire! 
Loe here I burne in such desire 
That all the teares that I can straine 
Out of mine idle empty braine 
Cannot allay my scorching paine. 

Come Trent and humber, and fayre Thames, 
Dread Ocean, haste with all thy streames: 
And, if you cannot quench my fire, 
O drowne both mee and my desire. 

Fire fire, fire, fire! 
There is no hell to my desire; 
See, all the Rivers backward flye, 
And th' Ocean doth his waves deny, 
For feare my heate should drinke them dry. 

Come heav'nly showres then, pouring downe; 
Come, you that once the world did drowne: 
Some then you spar'd but now save all, 
That else must burne, and with mee fall. 
-Thomas Campion 
 

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Source:Walter R. Davis, The Works of Thomas Campion, Doubleday,Garden City, 1967

A Booke of Ayres  XXI.
 

    Come, let vs sound with melody, the praises
    Of the kings king, th' omnipotent creator,
    Author of number, that hath all the world in
                                  Harmonie framed.

    Heau'n is His throne perpetually shining,
    His deuine power and glorie, thence he thunders,
    One in all, and all still in one abiding,
                                  Both Father and Sonne.

    O sacred sprite, inuisible, eternall
    Eu'ry where, yet vnlimited, that all things
    Canst in one moment penetrate, reuiue me,
                                  O holy Spirit.

    Rescue, O rescue me from earthly darknes,
    Banish hence all these elementall obiects,
    guide my soule that thirsts to the liuely Fountaine
                                  Of thy deuinenes.

    Cleanse my soule, O God, thy bespotted Image,
    Altered with sinne so that heau'nly purenes
    Cannot acknowledge me, but in thy mercies,
                                  O Father of grace.

    But when once thy beames do remoue my darknes,
    O then I'le shine forth as an Angell of light,
    And record, with more than an earthly voice, thy
                                  Infinite honours.

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A Booke of Ayres  II.
 

    Though you are young and I am olde,
    Though your vaines hot, and my bloud colde,
    Though youth is moist, and age is drie,
    Yet embers liue, when flames doe die.

    The tender graft is easely broke,
    But who shall shake the sturdie Oke?
    You are more fresh and faire then I,
    Yet stubs doe liue when flowers doe die.

    Thou that thy youth doest vainely boast,
    Know buds are soonest nipt with frost,
    Thinke that thy fortune still doth crie,
    Thou foole, to-morrow thou must die.
 

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My loue hath vowd hee will forsake mee

   My loue hath vowd hee will forsake mee,
   And I am alreadie sped.
   Far other promise he did make me
   When he had my maidenhead.
   If such danger be in playing,
   And sport must to earnest turne,
   I will go no more a-maying.

   Had I foreseene what is ensued,
   And what now with paine I proue,
   Vnhappie then I had eschewed
   This vnkind euent of loue :
   Maides foreknow their own vndooing,
   But feare naught till all is done,
   When a man alone is wooing.

   Dissembling wretch, to gaine thy pleasure,
   What didst thou not vow and sweare?
   So didst thou rob me of the treasure,
   Which so long I held so deare,
   Now thou prou'st to me a stranger,
   Such is the vile guise of men
   When a woman is in danger.

   That hart is neerest to misfortune
   That will trust a fained toong,
   When flattring men our loues importune,
   They entend vs deepest wrong,
   If this shame of loues betraying
   But this once I cleanely shun,
   I will go no more a-maying.

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Turn Back, You Wanton Flyer
 

    Turne backe, you wanton flyer,
    And answere my desire
    With mutuall greeting,
    Yet bende a little neerer,
    True beauty stil shines cleerer
    In closer meeting.
    Harts with harts delighted
    Should striue to be vnited,
    Either others armes with armes enchayning:
    Harts with a thought,
    Rosy lips with a kisse still entertaining.

    What haruest halfe so sweete is
    As still to reape the kisses
    Growne ripe in sowing,
    And straight to be receiuer
    Of that which thou art giuer,
    Rich in bestowing?
    There's no strickt obseruing
    Of times or seasons sweruing,
    There is euer one fresh spring abiding ;
    Then what we sow,
    With our lips let vs reape, loues gaines deuiding.
 

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The Man of Life Upright

Booke of Ayres (1601) version.

       The man of life vpright, 
           Whose guiltlesse hart is free
       From all dishonest deedes,
           Or thought of vanitie,

       The man whose silent dayes,
           In harmeles ioys are spent,
       Whom hopes cannot delude,
           Nor sorrow discontent ;

       That man needs neither towers
           Nor armour for defence,
       Nor secret vautes to flie
           From thunders violence.

       Hee onely can behold
           With vnafrighted eyes
       The horrours of the deepe
           And terrours of the Skies.

       Thus, scorning all the cares
           That fate, or fortune brings,
       He makes the heau'n his booke,
           His wisedome heeu'nly things,

       Good thoughts his onely friendes,
           His wealth a well-spent age,
       The earth his sober Inne
           And quiet Pilgrimage.

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A Booke of Ayres   XI.
        
    Faire, if you expect admiring,
    Sweet, if you prouoke desiring,
    Grace deere loue with kind requiting.
    Fond, but if thy sight be blindnes,
    False if thou affect vnkindnes,
    Flie both loue and loues delighting.
    Then when hope is lost and loue is scorned,
    Ile bury my desires, and quench the fires that euer yet in 
              vaine haue burned.

    Fates, if you rule louers fortune,
    Stars, if men your powers importune,
    Yield reliefe by your relenting :
    Time, if sorrow be not endles,
    Hope made vaine, and pittie friendles,
    Helpe to ease my long lamenting.
    But if griefes remaine still vnredressed,
    I'le flie to her againe, and sue for pitie to renue my hopes
              distressed.
 
 
 

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My Sweetest Lesbia
 

  My sweetest Lesbia, let vs liue and loue,
  And though the sager sort our deedes reproue,
  Let vs not way them : heau'ns great lampes doe diue
  Into their west, and straight againe reuiue,
  But soone as once set is our little light,
  Then must we sleepe one euer-during night.

  If all would lead their liues in loue like mee,
  Then bloudie swords and armour should not be,
  No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleepes should moue,
  Vnles alar'me came from the campe of loue :
  But fooles do liue, and wast their little light,
  And seeke with paine their euer-during night.

  When timely death my life and fortune ends,
  Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends,
  But let all louers rich in triumph come,
  And with sweet pastimes grace my happie tombe;
  And Lesbia close vp thou my little light,
  And crown with loue my euer-during night.
 

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When To Her Lute Corinna Sings

   When to her lute Corrina sings,
    Her voice reuiues the leaden stringes,
    And doth in highest noates appeare,
    As any challeng'd eccho cleere ;
    But when she doth of mourning speake,
    Eu'n with her sighes the strings do breake.

    And as her lute doth liue or die,
    Led by her passion, so must I,
    For when of pleasure she doth sing,
    My thoughts enioy a sodaine spring,
    But if she doth of sorrow speake,
    Eu'n from my hart the strings doe breake.
 

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Beauty Is But A Painted Hell
      Beauty is but a painted hell :
           Aye me, aye me,
   Shee wounds them that admire it,
   Shee kils them that desire it.
           Giue her pride but fuell,
           No fire is more cruell.

   Pittie from eu'ry heart is fled :
           Aye me, aye me,
   Since false desire could borrow
   Teares of dissembled sorrow,
           Constant vowes turn truthlesse,
           Loue cruele, Beauty ruthlesse.

   Sorrow can laugh, and Fury sing :
           Aye me, aye me,
   My rauing griefes discouer
   I liu'd too true a louer :
           The first step to madnesse
           Is the excesse of sadnesse.
 

    Source:
    Campion, Thomas. Campion's Works. Percival Vivian, Ed. 
    Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1909. 
 

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About Thomas Campion
Thomas Campion was known to and an associate of the plotters, although he did not take part in the plot itself.

           Thomas Campion was born in London on February 12, 1567. Campion was: a law student, a physician, a composer, an author of masques,  a poet.
Campion's parents died in his youth.  With his inheritance  he was able to attend  Peterhouse, Cambridge from 1581-4. Campion departed  Cambridge, without  a degree. 1586- Admitted to Gray's Inn in London for  law atudy.
1588- Participated in the Gray's Inn revels
1594-wrote songs to the Gesta Grayorum revels.
           Campion's first poems  were written  in Latin. The quantitative versification of  classical Latin poems is also seen  in his English poems and songs. Campion was
1591- First Publication- five songs appeared in an illegal edition of Sidney's Astrophel and Stella.
1595- Published , a collection of Latin epigrams, called Poemata (1595).
Campion is most famous for  his lyric poems, which are known  for  musical quality and charm.
The songs  were published 1601-1617 - four books of airs. The first book was-
A Booke of Ayres to be Sung to the Lute, Orpherian and Bass Viol (1601).
 In 1602 he published the prose work Observations in the Art of English Poesie, in which he "attacked ' the vulgar and unartificial (i.e., inartistic) custom of rhyming.' "1 these theories were refuted by Samuel Daniel in Defence of Rhyme (1603).
(1602-1605)Campion was  on the Continent.
Received the M.D. degree from the University of Caen in 1605.
Campion returned to England, and was practising as a doctor in London from 1606.
Wrote several masques which were performed at the court of James I.1
Lords' Masque  (1613).
1613  A New Way of Making Fowre Parts in Counterpoint, a  music theory text.
In 1615 Campion was questioned in the  case of Sir Thomas Overbury, was found innocent and released.
Campion died in London, probably of the plauge, on March 1, 1620 and was buried at St. Dunstan's-in-the-West.
Percival Vivian on Campion:

              His early extravagances he outlived; and if it were possible to recall the time of his later years, we may imagine thatwe should find a kindly gentleman, full of ripe experience and  judgment, yet cherishing the memories of old loves and friendships, and the generous illusions of youth ; devoted to the studies of poetry, music, and medicine, a true son of Apollo, as  he was never tired of urging; clothed with that finer tact and sympathy which comes to a good physician.  (Works, xlix-l)3
 
 

     Bibliography:

          Davis, Walter R. Thomas Campion (1987)
          Eldridge, Muriel T. Thomas Campion (1971)
          Kastendieck, M. M. England's Musical Poet: Thomas Campion (1938)
          Lindley, David. Thomas Campion (1997)
          Lowbury, Edward, Timothy Salter, and Alison Young. Thomas Campion: poet, composer, physician (1970)
          Peltz, Catherine W. "Thomas Campion, An Elizabethan Neo-Classicist." Modern Language Quarterly 11 (1950), 3-6.
          Short, R. W. "The Metrical Theory and Practice of Thomas Campion." Publications of the Modern Language Association 59 (1944), 1003-18.
          Vivian, Percival, ed. Campionís Works (Oxford, 1909)
 

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