FOURTH BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 19 by THOMAS CAMPION

HER fair inflaming eyes,
Chief authors of my cares,
I prayed in humblest wise
With grace to view my tears:
They beheld me broad awake,
But alas, no ruth would take.

Her lips with kisses rich,
And words of fair delight,
I fairly did beseech,
To pity my sad plight:
But a voice from them brake forth,
As a whirlwind from the north.

Then to her hands I fled,
That can give heart and all;
To them I long did plead,
And loud for pity call:
But, alas, they put me off,
With a touch worse than a scoff.

So back I straight returned,
And at her breast I knocked;
Where long in vain I mourned,
Her heart, so fast was locked:
Not a word could passage find,
For a rock enclosed her mind.

Then down my prayers made way
To those most comely parts,
That make her fly or stay,
As they affect deserts:
But her angry feet, thus moved,
Fled with all the parts I loved.

Yet fled they not so fast,
As her enraged mind:
Still did I after haste,
Still was I left behind;
Till I found 'twas to no end,
With a spirit to contend.

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