THOMAS CAMPION
Follow her, while yet her glory shinethl
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.
181 (it)
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'
All that I sung still to her praise did tend; Still she was first, still she my songb did end, Yet she my love and music both doth fly, The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight' It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.
182 Vobiscum est lope
WHEN thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White lope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finish'd love From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;
�� �
