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Orlando Fraga

Thomas Campion Canes Elizabethanas

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The Third Booke of Ayres (1617)

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The Third Booke of Ayres (1617)

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The Fourth Booke of Ayres (1617)

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The Second Booke of Ayres (1613)

10

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The Third Booke of Ayres (1617)

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The Fourth Booke of Ayres (1617)

12

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In Philip Rosseter's"A Booke of Ayres" (1601)

13

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The Second Booke of Ayres (1613)

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WHEN THOU MUST HOMETranscrio: Orlando Fraga Thomas Campion

In Philip Rosseter's "A Booke of Ayres" (1601)

14

IF THOU LONGST SO MUCH TO LEARNE Thomas Campian The Third Booke of Ayres (1617) 1 If thou longst so much to learne (sweet boy) what tis to love: Does but fixe thy thought on mee, and Thou shalt quickly prove. Little sute at first shall win Way to thy abasht desire: But then will I hedge thee in, Salamender-like with fire. 2 With thee dance I will, and sing, and Thy fond dalliance beare: Wee the grovy hils will climbe, and Olay the wantons there. Other whiles weele gather floweres, Lying dallying on the grasse, And thus our delightfull howres Full of waking dreames shall passe. 3 When thy joyes were thus at height my Love should turne from thee, Old acquaintance then should grown as Strange as strange might be, Twenty rivals thou shouldst finde Breaking all their hearts for mee, When to all Ile prove more kinde, And more forward than to thee. 4 Thus thy silly youth enragd would Soone my love defie; But alas poore soule too late, clipt Wings can never flye: Hose sweet houres which wee had past Cald to mind thy heart would burne: And couldst thou flye neer so fast, They would make thee straight returne.

Thomas Campian

Jacke and Jone Thomas Campian The First Booke of Ayres (1613) 1 Iacke and Ione they thinke no ill, But louing liue, and merry still ; Doe their weeke dayes worke, and pray Deuotely on the holy day : Skip and trip it on the greene, And help to chuse the Summer Queene; Lash out, at a Country Feast, Their siluer penny with the best. 2 Well can they iudge of nappy Ale, And tell at large a Winter tale ; Climb vp to the Apple loft, And turne the Crabs till they be soft. Tib is all the fathers ioy, And little Tom the mothers boy. All their pleasure is content ; And care, to pay their yearely rent. 3 Ione can call by name her Cowes, And decke her windowes with greene boughs ; Shee can wreathes and tuttyes make, And trimme with plums a Bridall Cake. Iacke knowes what brings gaine or losse ; And his long Flaile can stoutly tosse : Make the hedge, which others breake, And euer thinkes what he doth speake. 4 Now, you Courtly Dames and Knights, That study onely strange delights ; Though you scorne the home-spun gray, And reuell in your rich array : Though your tongues dissemble deepe, And can your heads from danger keepe ; Yet, for all your pompe and traine, Securer liues the silly Swaine. Thomas Campian

Kinde are her answeres Thomas Campian The Yhird Booke of Ayres (1617) 1 Kinde are her answeres, But her performance keeps no day ; Breaks time, as dancers From their own Musicke when they stray : All her free fauors and smooth words, Wing my hopes in vaine. O did euer voice so sweet but only fain? Can true loue yeeld such delay, Conuerting ioy to pain? 2 Lost is our freedome When we submit to women so : Why doe wee neede them, When in their best they worke our woe? There is no wisedome Can alter ends, by Fate prefixt. O why is the good of man with euill mixt? Neuer were days yet cal'd two, But one night went betwixt. Thomas Campian

NEVER WEATHER-BEATEN SAILE Thomas Campian The Second Booke of Ayres The First Book (1613) 1 Never weather-beaten Saile more willing bent to shore, Never tyred Pilgrims limbs affected slumber more; Than my wearied spright now longs to flye out of my troubled brest: O come quickly sweetest Lord, and take my soule to rest. 2 Ever blooming are the joyes of Heavns high paradice, Cold age deafes not there our eares, nor vapour dims our eyes; Glory there the Sun outshionees, whose beames the blessed onely see: O come quickly glorious Lord, and raise my spright to thee. Thomas Campian

NOW WINTER NIGHTS ENLARGE Thomas Campian The Third Booke of Ayres (1617) 1 Now winter nights enlarge The number of their houres, And clouds their stoms discharge Upon the ayrie towres, Let now the chimneys blaze And cups oerflow with winw: Let well-tund words amaze With harmonie divine. Now yellow waxen lights Shall waite on hunny Love, While youthfull Revels, Masks, and Courtly sights, Sleepes leaden spels remove. 2 This tiem doth well dispence With lovers long discourse; Much speech hath some defence, Though brauty no remorse. All doe not all things well; Some measure comely trad; Some knotted Ridles tel; Some Poems smoothly read. The Summer hath his joyes, And Winter his delights; Though Love and all his pleasures are but toyes, They shorten tedious nights. Thomas Campian

SILLY BOY, TIS FUL MOONE Thomas Campian The Third Booke of Ayres (1617) 1 Silly boy tis ful Moone yet thy night as day shines clearely; Had thy youth but wit to feare, thou coudst love so dearely: Shortly wit thou mourne when all thy pleaseres are bereaved; Little knows he how to love that never was deceived. 2 This is thy first mayden flame that triumphes yet unstained; All is artless now speake, not one word yet is fayned; All is heavn that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessed: But no Spring can want his Fall, each Troylus hath his Cresseid. 3 Thy well-orderd lockes ere long shall rudely hang neglected; And thy lively pleasant cheare, reade griefe on earth dejected: Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint that made thy heart so holy, And with sighs confesse, in love, that too much faith is folly. 4 Yet be just and constant still, Love may beget a wonder; Not unlike a Summers frost, or Winters fatall thunder: He that holds his Sweet-hart true unto his day of dying, Lives of all that ever breathd most worthy the envying. Thomas Campian

SO QUICKE, SO HOT, SO MAD Thomas Campian The Third Booke of Ayres (1617) 1 So quicke, so hot, so mad is thy fond sute, So rude, so tedious growne, in urging mee, That faine I would with losse make thy tongue mute, And yeeld some little grace to quiet thee. An houre with thee I care not to converse: For I would not be counted too perverse. 2 But roofes too hot would prove for men all fire, And hils too high for my unsured pace; The grove is chargd with thornes and the bold bryer; Gray Snake the meadows shrowde and in every place: A yellow Frog, alas will fright me so As I should start and tremble as I goe. 3 Since then I can on earth not fit roome finde, In heavn I am resolvs with you to meete; Till then for Hopes, sweet sake rest your tird mind, And not so much as see mee in the streete: A heavenly meeting one day wee shall have, But never, as you dreame, in bed, or grave. Thomas Campian

Think'st thou to seduce me then Thomas Campian The Fourth Booke of Ayres (1617) 1 Think'st thou to seduce me then with words that haue no meaning? Parats so can learne to prate, our speech by pieces gleaning: Nurces teach their children so about the time of weaning. 2 Learne to speake first, then to wooe : to wooing, much pertayneth: Hee that courts vs, wanting Arte, soon falters when he fayneth, Lookes a-squint on his discourse, and smiles, when hee complaineth. 3 Skilfull Anglers hide their hookes, fit baytes for euery season; But with crooked pins fish thou, as babes doe that want reason; Gogions* onely can be caught with such poore trickes of treason. 4 Ruth forgiue me, if I err'd, from humane hearts compassion, When I laught sometimes too much to see thy foolish fashion: But, alas, who lesse could doe that found so good occasion? Thomas Campian

*Gogions: Gudgeons

Though Your Strangenesse Frets My Hart Thomas Campian The Second Booke of Ayres (1613) 1 Though you strangenesse frets my hart, Yet may not I complaine: You perswade me tis but Art That secret love must faine. If another you affect, Tis but a shew tavoid suspect, Is this faire excusing? O no, all is abusing. 2 Your wisht sight if I desire, Suspitions you pretend, Causelesse you your selfe retire While I in vain attend: This a Lover whets you say, Still made more eager by delay, Is this faire excusing? O no, all is abusing. 3 When another holds your hand, You sweare I hold your Hart: When my Rivaaaals close doe stand, And I sit farre apart, I am nearer yet than they, Hid your besome, as you say, Is this faire excusing? O no, all is abusing. 4 Would my Rival then I were, Or els your secret friend: So much lesser should I feare, And not so much attend. They enjoy you evry one, Yet I must seeme your friend alone. Is this faire excusing? O no, all is abusing. Thomas Campian

THRICE TOSSE THESE OAKEN ASHES Thomas Campian The Third Booke of Ayres (1617) 1 Thrice tosse these Oaken ashes in the ayre; Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chayre: And thrice three time tye up this true loves knot, And murmur soft shee will, or shee will not. 2 Goe burn these poysnous weedes in yon blew fire, These Screech-owles fethers, and this prickling bryer, This Cypresse gathhered at a dead mans grave; That allthy feares and cares an end may have. 3 Then come you Fayries, dance with me a round, Melt her hard hart with your melodious sound: In vaine are all the charms I can devise, She hath an Arte to breake them with her eyes.

TO HIS SWEET LUTE Thomas Campian The Fourth Booke of Ayres (1617) 1 To his sweet Lute Apollo sung the motions of the Spheares; The wondrous order of the Stars, whose course divides the years: And all the Mysteries above; But none of this could Midas move, Which purchast him his Asses eares. 2 Then Pan with his rude Pipe began the Country-wealth tadvance; To boast of cattle, flocks of Sheepe, and Goates, on hils that dance, With much more of this churlish kinde: That quite transported Midas minde, And held him rapt as in a trance. 3 This wrong the God of Musicke scorned from such a sottish Judge, And bent his angry bow at Pan, which made the Piper trudge: Then Midas head he so did trim, That evry age yet talkes of him And Phoebus right revenged grudge. Thomas Campian

TURNE BACKE YOU WANTON FLYER Thomas Campion In Philip Rosseters A Booke of Ayres (1601) 1 Turne backe you wanton flyer, And answere my desire With mutuall greeting, Yet bende a little nearer, True beauty stil shines cleerer In closer meeting, Harts with harts delighted Should strive to be united, Either others armes with armes enchayning, Harts with thought, rosie lips With a kisse still entertaining. 2 What harvest halfe so sweete is As still to reape the kisses Growne ripe in sowing, And straight to be receiver, Of that which thou art giver, Rich in bestowing. Theres no strickt observing, Of times, or seasons changing, There is ever one fresh spring abiding, Then what we sow with our lips Let us reape loves gaines deviding. Thomas Campion

WHAT HARVEST HALF SO SWEET IS Thomas Campian The Second Booke of Ayres (1613) 1 What harvest half so sweet is, As still to reape the kisses Grown ripe in sowing? And straight to be receiver Of the which thou art giver, Rich in bestowing? Kiss then, my harvest Queene, Full garners heaping; Kisses ripest when th are greene, Want onely reaping. 2 The Dove alone expresses Her fervencie in kisses, Of all most loving: A creature as offencelesse, As those things that are sencelesse, And void of moving. Let us so love and kisse, Though all envie us: That which kinde, and harmlesse is, None can denie us. Thomas Campian

WHEN THOU MUST HOME Thomas Campion In Philip Rosseters A Booke of Ayres (1601) 1 When thou must home to shade of under ground, And there arrivd a newe admired guest, The beauteous spirits do ingirt thee round, While Iopes, blith Hellen, and the rest, To heare the stories of thy finisht love, From that smoothe toong whose musicke hell can move. 2 Then wilt thou speake of banqueting delights, Of masks and revels which sweete youth did make, Of Turnies and great challenges of knights, And all these triumphes for thy beauties sake, When thou hast told these honours done to thee, Then tell, O tell how thou didst murther me.