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And of all love's joyful flame
I the bud and blossom am.

Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be!



See, see the flowers that below
Now as fresh as morning blow;
And of all the virgin rose
That as bright Aurora shows;
How they all unleavèd die,
Losing their virginity!
Like unto a summer shade,
But now born, and now they fade.
Every thing doth pass away;
There is danger in delay:
Come, come, gather then the rose,
Gather it, or it you lose !
All the sand of Tagus' shore
Into my bosom casts his ore:
All the valleys' swimming corn
To my house is yearly borne:
Every grape of every vine
Is gladly bruised to make me wine:
While ten thousand kings, as proud,
To carry up my train have bow'd,
And a world of ladies send me
In my chambers to attend me:
All the stars in Heav'n that shine,
And ten thousand more, are mine.

Only bend thy knee to me,

Thy wooing shall thy winning be! 1610.

Giles Fletcher.



THERE is a garden in her face

Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe theniselves do cry.


Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearl a double row;
Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow:
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

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Her eyes like angels watch them still ;

Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill

All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,

– Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry! 1606. .

Thomas Campion.



FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet!
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her Aying feet!

There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move,
And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her

But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,
Then burst with sighing in her siglit, and ne'er

return again!


All that I sung still to her praise did tend;
Still she was first, still she my songs did end;
Yet she my love and music both doth fly,
The music that her echo is and beauty's sym-

pathy: Then let my notes pursue her scornful fight! It shall suffice that they were breathed and died

for her delight. 1601.

Thomas Campion.



From Davison's Poetical Rhapsody

My Love in her attire doth show her wit,

It doth so well become her;
For every season she hath dressings fit,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No beauty she doth miss

When all her robes are on:
But Beauty's self she is

When all her robes are gone. 1602.



When thou must home to shades of underground,

And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt 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



Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
Of masques and revels which sweet youth did

Of tourneys and great challenges 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! 1601.

Thomas Campion.




Love me not for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part:
No, nor for a constant heart;
For those may fail or turn to ill,

So thou and I shall serer.

Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why!
So hast thou the same reason still

To dote upon me ever. 1609.


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In the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
Forth I walk'd by the wood-side
Whereas May was in her pride:
There I spied all alone
Phillida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot!
He would love and she would not.
She said, never man was true ;
He said, none was false to you.
He said, he had loved her long;
She said, Love should have no wrong.
Corydon would kiss her then;
She said, maids must kiss no men
Till they did for good and all ;
Then she made the shepherd call
All the heavens to witness truth
Never loved a truer youth.
Thus with many a pretty oath,
Yea and nay, and faith and troth,
Such as seely shepherds use
When they will not Love abuse,


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