When Thou Must Home 
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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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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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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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, 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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