Her Sacred Bower

Show me no more those snowy breasts

With azure riverets branched,

Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,

Yet is my thirst not stanched; O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell!

By me thou art prevented: 'Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell, But thus in Heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms,
Nor thy life's comfort call me,
O these are but too powerful charms,
And do but more enthral me!
But see how patient I am grown
In all this coil about thee:

Come, nice thing, let my heart alone,

I cannot live without thee!

565

Michael Drayton [1563-1631]

HER SACRED BOWER

WHERE she her sacred bower adorns,

The rivers clearly flow,

The groves and meadows swell with flowers,

The winds all gently blow.

Her sun-like beauty shines so fair,

Her spring can never fade:

Who then can blame the life that strives

To harbor in her shade?

Her grace I sought, her love I wooed;

Her love thought to obtain;

No time, no toil, no vow, no faith,

Her wished grace can gain.

Yet truth can tell my heart is hers

And her will I adore;

And from that love when I depart,

Let heaven view me no more!

Her roses with my prayers shall spring;
And when her trees I praise,

Their boughs shall blossom, mellow fruit
Shall strew her pleasant ways.
The words of hearty zeal have power
High wonders to effect;

O, why should then her princely ear
My words or zeal neglect?

If she my faith misdeems, or worth,
Woe worth my hapless fate!

For though time can my truth reveal,
That time will come too late.
And who can glory in the worth
That cannot yield him grace?
Content in everything is not,
Nor joy in every place.

But from her Bower of Joy since I
Must now excluded be,

And she will not relieve my cares,
Which none can help but she;
My comfort in her love shall dwell,
Her love lodge in my breast,
And though not in her bower, yet I

Shall in her temple rest.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

TO LESBIA *

AFTER CATULLUS

My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,

And though the sager sort our deeds reprove,

Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive
Into their west, and straight again revive:

But soon as once set is our little light,
Then must we sleep one ever-during night.

If all would lead their lives in love like me,
Then bloody swords and armor should not be;
No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,
Unless alarm came from the Camp of Love:

* For the original of this poem see page 3577.

"There Is None, O None But You 567

But fools do live and waste their little light,
And seek with pain their ever-during night.

When timely death my life and fortune ends,
Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends;
But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come

And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb:
And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light,

And crown with love my ever-during night.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

"LOVE ME OR NOT"

Love me or not, love her I must or die;
Leave her or not, follow her needs must I.

O that her grace would my wished comforts give!
How rich in her, how happy should I live!

All my desire, all my delight should be
Her to enjoy, her to unite to me;

Envy should cease, her would I love alone:
Who loves by looks, is seldom true to one.

Could I enchant, and that it lawful were,
Her would I charm softly that none should hear;
But love enforced rarely yields firm content:
So would I love that neither should repent.

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

"THERE IS NONE, O NONE BUT YOU"

THERE is none, O none but you,
That from me estrange the sight,

Whom mine eyes affect to view,

And chained ears hear with delight.

Other beauties others move:
In you I all graces find;
Such is the effect of Love,

To make them happy that are kind.

Women in frail beauty trust,

Only seem you fair to me:
Still prove truly kind and just,
For that may not dissembled be.

Sweet, afford me then your sight,
That, surveying all your looks,
Endless volumes I may write,

And fill the world with envied books:

Which, when after-ages view,

All shall wonder and despair,—
Woman, to find a man so true,
Or man, a woman half so fair!

Thomas Campion [? -1619]

OF CORINNA'S SINGING

WHEN to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear,

As any challenged echo clear:

But when she doth of mourning speak,

E'en with her sighs, the strings do break.

And as her lute doth live or die,

Led by her passion, so must I!
For when of pleasure she doth sing,

My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring:

But if she doth of sorrow speak,

E'en from my heart the strings do break.

Thomas Campion [? -1619]

"WERE MY HEART AS SOME MEN'S ARE"

WERE my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not

move me;

But thy faults I curious find, and speak because I love thee: Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me.

To Celia

569

Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting,

Than the obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting:

Friendship is the Glass of Truth, our hidden stains detecting.

When I use of eyes enjoy, and inward light of reason,
Thy observer will I be and censor, but in season:
Hidden mischief to conceal in State and Love is treason.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

KIND are her answers,

But her performance keeps no day;

Breaks time, as dancers

From their own music when they stray.

All her free favors

And smooth words wing my hopes in vain.

O, did ever voice so sweet but only feign?
Can true love yield such delay,
Converting joy to pain?

Lost is our freedom

When we submit to women so:

Why do we need 'em

When, in their best, they work our woe?

There is no wisdom

Can alter ends by fate prefixed.

O, why is the good of man with evil mixed?
Never were days yet called two

But one night went betwixt.

Thomas Campion [? -1619]

TO CELIA

From "The Forest"

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I'll not look for wine.