| Thomas Campion
Follow your Saint, follow with accents sweet ;
Haste you, sad noates, fall at her flying feete :
There, wrapt in cloud of sorrowe pitie moue,
And tell the rauisher of my soule I perish for her loue.
But if she scorns my neuer-ceasing 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 loue and Musicke both doeth flie,
- The Musicke that her Eccho is and beauties simpathie ;
Then let my Noates pursue her scornfull flight :
It shall suffice that they were breath'd and dyed for her delight.