By my love, long, firm, and true, By these tears, my grief expressing, Pity me my fault confessing. Or, if I may not desire May with penance be suspended; With soon death my fault amended. A Fiction how Cupid made a Nymph wound herself with his arrows 1. Ir chanc'd of late a shepherd's swain, Within a thicket, on the plain, Her golden hair o'erspread her face, Her quiver had her pillow's place, Erroneously ascribed in Dryden's Misc. (vol. iv. p. 274) to Sidney Godolphin, under the title of "Cupid's Pastime." The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill, The crafty boy, that sees her sleep, There come, he steals her shafts away, But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace. Scarce was he gone when she awakes, And at the simple swain let fly. Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart, Yet up again forthwith he start, And to the nymph he ran amain. Amaz'd to see so strange a sight, She shot, and shot, but all in vain : Love yieldeth strength in midst of pain. Her angry eyes are great with tears, She blames her hands, she blames her skill; The bluntness of her shafts she fears, And try them on herself she will. Take heed, sweet nymph, try not thy shaft! Yet try she will, and prick some bare; That breast she prick'd, and through that breast At feeling of this new-come guest, She runs not now, she shoots no more; Though mountains meet not, lovers may, The god of love sits on a tree, And laughs that pleasant sight to see. THOMAS CAMPION WAS a physician in the reign of James I. and author of two Masques; one presented at Whitehall, on the marriage of Lord Hayes, printed 1607, 4to, and the other represented at Lord Knowles's, at Cawsome-house, &c., printed 1613, 4to. The following pieces are taken from Davison's miscellany. Of Corinna's Singing. WHEN to her lute Corinna sings, But when she doth of mourning speak, E'en with her sighs the strings do break. And as her lute doth live or die, For when of pleasure she doth sing, E'en from my heart the strings do break. Of his Mistress's Face. AND would you see my mistress' face? It is a flowery garden-place, Where knots of beauty have such grace, That all is work, and no where space. It is a sweet delicious morn, It is the heaven's bright reflex, Envy of whom doth world perplex. It is a face of death that smiles, Pleasing, though it kill the whiles, Where death and love, in pretty wiles, Each other mutually beguiles. It is fair beauty's freshest youth : w'th The spring that winter'd hearts renew' And this is that my soul pursu'th. VOL. III. C |