Two Bookes of Ayres:
The Second Booke.
by Thomas Campion.
Where shee her sacred bowre adornes,
The Riuers clearely flow ;
The groues and medowes swell with flowres,
The windes all gently blow.
Her Sunne-like beauty shines so fayre,
Her Spring can neuer fade :
Who then can blame the life that striues
To harbour in her shade ?
Her grace I sought, her loue I wooed ;
Her loue though I obtaine,
No time, no toyle, no vow, no faith,
Her wished grace can gaine.
Yet truth can tell my heart is hers,
And her will I adore ;
And from that loue when I depart,
Let heau'n view me no more.
Her roses with my prayers shall spring ;
And when her trees I praise,
Their boughs shall blossome, mellow fruit
Shall straw her pleasant wayes.
The words of harty zeale haue powre
High wonders to effect ;
O why should then her Princely eare
My words, or zeale neglect ?
If shee my faith misdeemes, or worth,
Woe-worth my haplesse fate :
For though time can my truth reueale,
That time will come too late.
And who can glory in the worth,
That cannot yeeld him grace ?
Content in eu'rything is not,
Nor ioy in eu'ry place.
But from her bowre of Ioy since I
Must now excluded be,
And shee will not relieue my cares,
Which none can helpe but shee ;
My comfort in her loue shall dwell,
Her loue lodge in my brest,
And though not in her bowre, yet I
Shall in her temple rest.
Percival Vivian, Ed.
Clarendon Press, 1909. 134-135.