LOVE-POEMS.
35
Love ye who list, I force him not;
Since God it wot,
The more I wail,
The less my sighs and tears prevail.
What shall I do? but say therefore,
Hey ho! chill love no more.
From Thomas Campion's Fourth
Book of Airs (circ. 1617).
TURN all thy thoughts to eyes,
Turn all thy hairs to ears,
Change all thy friends to spies
And all thy joys to fears;
True love will yet be free
In spite of jealousy.
Turn darkness into day,
Conjectures into truth,
Believe what th' envious say.
Let age interpret youth:
True love will yet be free
In spite of jealousy.
Wrest every word and look.
Rack every hidden thought,
Or fish with golden hook;
True love cannot be caught:
For that will still be free
In spite of jealousy.
