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Thomas Campion

The Third Booke of Ayres


V. So tyr'd are all my thoughts

       1  So tyr'd are all my thoughts, that sence and spirits faile;
       Mourning I pine, and know not what I ayle.
       O what can yeeld ease to a minde, 
             Ioy in nothing that can finde ?

       2  How are my powres fore-spoke ? what strange distaste is this ?
       Hence cruell hate of that which sweetest is :
       Come, come delight, make my dull braine
             Feele once heate of ioy againe.

       3  The louers teares are sweet, their mouer makes them so :
       Proud of a wound the bleeding Souldiers grow :
       Poore I alone, dreaming, endure
             Griefe that knowes nor cause, nor cure.

       4  And whence can all this grow ? euen from an idle minde,
       That no delight in any good can finde.
       Action alone mahes the soule blest;
             Vertue dyes with too much rest.



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