Sonnet CXLVI Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Foiled by these rebel powers that thee array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more: So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, And Death once dead, there's no more dying then. Thomas Campion Follow your Saint, follow with Accents Sweet! Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet! Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet! There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move, And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love: But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again! All that I sang still to her praise did tend; Still she was first; still she my songs did end: Yet she my love and music both doth fly, The music that her Echo is and beauty's sympathy. Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight! It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight. Hark, all you Ladies that do Sleep! Hark, all you ladies that do sleep! The fairy-queen Proserpina Bids you awake and pity them that weep: You may do in the dark What the day doth forbid; Fear not the dogs that bark, But if you let your lovers moan, Will send abroad her fairies every one, Your white hands and fair arms That did not kindly rue Your paramours' harms. In myrtle arbours on the downs This night by moonshine leading merry rounds, |