Come away! come, sweet Love! Do not in vain adorn Beauty's grace, that should rise Like to our naked morn! Lilies on the river's side, And fair Cyprian flowers new-blown, Desire no beauties but their own: Ornament is nurse of pride. Pleasure measure[s] love's delight: Haste then, sweet love, our wished flight! [3] This stanza is not in the original, but is added in _England's Helicon_. From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613). Come, O come, my life's delight! Let me not in languor pine! Love loves no delay; thy sight The more enjoyed, the more divine! O come, and take from me The pain of being deprived of thee! Thou all sweetness dost enclose, Like a little world of bliss; Beauty guards thy looks, the rose In them pure and eternal is: Come, then, and make thy flight As swift to me as heavenly light! From THOMAS FORD's _Music of Sundry Kinds_, 1607. Come, Phyllis, come into these bowers: Here shelter is from sharpest showers, Cool gales of wind breathe in these shades, Danger none this place invades; Here sit and note the chirping birds Pleading my love in silent words. Come, Phyllis, come, bright heaven's eye Cannot upon thy beauty pry; Glad Echo in distinguished voice Naming thee will here rejoice; Then come and hear her merry lays Crowning thy name with lasting praise. From JOHN WILBYE's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609. Come, shepherd swains, that wont to hear me sing, Now sigh and groan! Dead is my Love, my Hope, my Joy, my Spring; Dead, dead, and gone! O, She that was your Summer's Queen, Your days' delight, Is gone and will no more be seen; O, cruel spite! Break all your pipes that wont to sound With pleasant cheer, And cast yourselves upon the ground To wail my Dear! Come, shepherd swains, come, nymphs, and all a-row To help me cry: Dead is my Love, and, seeing She is so, Lo, now I die! From _Two Books of Airs_, by THOMAS CAMPION (circ. 1613). Come, you pretty false-eyed wanton, Leave your crafty smiling! Think you to escape me now With slipp'ry words beguiling? No; you mocked me th' other day; When you got loose, you fled away; But, since I have caught you now, I'll clip your wings for flying: Smoth'ring kisses fast I'll heap And keep you so from crying. Sooner may you count the stars And number hail down-pouring, Tell the osiers of the Thames, Or Goodwin sands devouring, Than the thick-showered kisses here Which now thy tired lips must bear. Such a harvest never was So rich and full of pleasure, But 'tis spent as soon as reaped, So trustless is lore's treasure. From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).