Poems by Thomas Campion
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Of Neptune’s empire let us sing,
I care not for these ladies that must be wooed and prayed;
When to her lute Corinna sings,
Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet;
The man of life upright,
An imitation of Catallus
Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,
Rose-cheeked Laura, come,
There is a garden in her face,
Thrice toss those oaken ashes in the air;
When thou must home to shades of underground,
Now winter nights enlarge