Wit with his wantonness Tasteth death's bitterness; Hell's executioner Hath no ears for to hear What vain art can reply; I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us! Haste therefore each degree To welcome destiny; Heaven is our heritage, Earth but a player's stage. Mount we unto the sky; I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us! Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619 168. Cherry-Ripe THERE is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow which none may buy Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619 169. Laura ROSE-CHEEK'D Laura, come; Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's Silent music, either other Sweetly gracing. Lovely forms do flow From concent divinely framed: Heaven is music, and thy beauty's Birth is heavenly. These dull notes we sing Discords need for helps to grace them; Only beauty purely loving Knows no discord; But still moves delight, Like clear springs renew'd by flowing, Ever perfect, ever in them- selves eternal. Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619 170. Devotion i FOLLOW thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! Though thou be black as night, And she made all of light, Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth! Though here thou liv'st disgraced, And she in heaven is placed, Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth! Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth! That so have scorched thee As thou still black must be, Till her kind beams thy black so brightness turneth. Follow her, while yet her glory shineth! There comes a luckless night That will dim all her light; And this the black unhappy shade divineth. Follow still, since so thy fates ordained! The sun must have his shade, Till both at once do fade,-- The sun still proud, the shadow still disdained. Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619 171. Devotion ii FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet! Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet! There, wrapt 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!