Thomas Campion

thumb|What then is love but mourning?What desire, but a self-burning?Till she that hates doth love return,Thus will I mourn, thus will I sing,"Come away, come away, my darling." Thomas Campion (sometimes spelt Campian; 12 February 1567 – 1 March 1620) was an English composer, poet, and physician. He wrote over a hundred lute songs, masques for dancing, and an authoritative technical treatise on music. Quotes A Book of Ayres (1601) thumb|The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot delude,Nor sorrow discontent. My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,And though the sager sort our deeds reprove,Let us not weigh them: Heav'n's great lamps do diveInto their west, and straight again revive,But soon as once set is our little light,Then must we sleep one ever-during night. My Sweetest Lesbia, l. 1 I care not for these ladies,That must be wooed and prayed;Give me kind Amaryllis,The wanton country maid.Nature art disdaineth;Her beauty is her own. I Care Not for These Ladies, st. 1 Who, when we court and kiss,She cries, "Forsooth, let go!"But when we come where comfort is,She never will say no. I Care Not for These Ladies, st. 3 Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow,Though thou be black as night,And she made all of light,Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow. Follow Thy Faire Sun, st. 1 When to her lute Corinna sings,Her voice revives the leaden strings,And both in highest notes appear,As any challeng'd echo clear.But when she doth of mourning speak,Ev’n with her sighs the strings do break. When to Her Lute Corinna Sings, st. 1 Follow your Saint, follow with accents sweet;Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet. Follow Your Saint, l. 1 The man of life upright,Whose guiltless heart is freeFrom all dishonest deedsOr thought of vanity. The Man of Life Upright, st. 1 The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot delude,Nor sorrow discontent:That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder's violence. The Man of Life Upright, sts. 2–3 He only can beholdWith unaffrighted eyesThe horrors of the deepAnd terrors of the skies. The Man of Life Upright, st. 4 Good thoughts his only friends,His wealth a well-spent age,The earth his sober innAnd quiet pilgrimage. The Man of Life Upright, st. 6 Hark, all you ladies that do sleep;The fairy Queen ProserpinaBids you awake and pity them that weep. Hark, All You Ladies That Do Sleep, st. 1 When thou must home to shades of underground,And there arrived, a new admirèd guest,The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,To hear the stories of thy finish’d loveFrom that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,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! When Thou Must Home to Shades of Underground What then is love but mourning?What desire, but a self-burning?Till she that hates doth love return,Thus will I mourn, thus will I sing,"Come away, come away, my darling." What Then Is Love but Mourning, st. 1 Observations in the Art of English Poesie (1602) thumb|Beauty's silent music. Rose-cheeked Laura, come;Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty’sSilent music, either otherSweetly gracing. Laura, st. 1 Lovely forms do flowFrom conceit divinely framed;Heaven is music, and thy beauty'sBirth is heavenly. Laura, st. 2 Only beauty purely lovingKnows no discord,But still moves delight,Like clear springs renewed by flowing,Ever perfect, ever in themselves eternal. Laura, sts. 3–4 Two Bookes of Ayres (c. 1613) Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more. Never Weather-beaten Sail, st. 1 The Third and Fourth Bookes of Ayres (1617) thumb|Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee. thumb|Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee? thumb|There is a garden in her face. Kind are her answers,But her performance keeps no day;Breaks time, as dancersFrom their own Music when they stray. Kind are Her Answers, st. 1 Lost is our freedom,When we submit to women so:Why do we need them,When in their best they work our woe? Kind are Her Answers, st. 2 Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee,When the ev'ning beams are set? Shall I Come, Sweet Love, to Thee, st. 1 Sleep, angry beauty, sleep, and fear not me.For who a sleeping lion dares provoke? Sleep, Angry Beauty, st. 1 Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee,That she in peace may wake and pity me. Sleep, Angry Beauty, st. 2 There is a garden in her faceWhere roses and white lilies blow;A heavenly paradise is that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;There cherries grow that none may buy,Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. There Is a Garden in Her Face, st. 1 Those cherries fairly do encloseOf orient pearl a double row,Which when her lovely laughter shows,They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow. There Is a Garden in Her Face, st. 2 External links Category:Poets from England Category:Composers from England Category:Physicians Category:1620 deaths Category:Musicians