Hide, O hide those hills of snow, Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those that April wears. But first set my poor heart free Bound in those icy chains by thee. SONG How should I your true love know From another one? By his cockle hat and staff And his sandal shoon. He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; And at his head a green grass turf And at his heels a stone. White his shroud as mountain snow, Larded with sweet showers, Which bewept to the grave did go, With true love showers. ANONYMOUS TOM O’ BEDLAM THE morn’s my constant mistress, And the lovely owl my marrow; The naming drake, And the night-crow, make Me music to my sorrow. I know more than Apollo; For oft when he lies sleeping, I behold the stars At mortal wars, And the rounded welkin weeping. The moon embraces her shepherd, And the Queen of Love her warrior; While the first does horn The stars of the morn, And the next the heavenly farrier. With a heart of furious fancies, Whereof I am commander: With a burning spear, And a horse of air, To the wilderness I wander; With a Knight of ghosts and shadows, I summoned am to Tourney: Ten leagues beyond The wide world’s end; Methinks it is no journey. THOMAS CAMPION _Circ._ 1567–1620 KIND ARE HER ANSWERS KIND are her answers, But her performance keeps no day; Breaks time, as dancers From their own music when they stray. All her free favours 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 prefixt. O, why is the good of man with evil mixt? Never were days yet called two But one night went betwixt. LAURA ROSE-CHEEKED 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 renewed by flowing, Ever perfect, ever in them- Selves eternal. HER BACKED 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 harbour in her shade?