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Thomas Campion

The second Booke of Ayres



1   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 ?

2   Her grace I sought, her loue I wooed;
      Her loue thogh 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.

3   Her roses with my prayes 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 ?

4   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'ry thing is not,
      Nor ioy in eu'ry place.

5   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 thogh not in her bowre, yet I
      Shall in her temple rest.


Online text copyright ©, Harald Lillmeyer