31 January 2007

16th century

Thomas Campion

     See how the morning smiles
     On her bright Eastern hills
     And with soft steps beguiles
     Them that lie slumbering still.
The music-loving birds are come
     From cliffs and rocks unknown,
To see the trees and briars bloom
     That late were overflown.

Ben Jonson

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
     And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
     And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
     Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s Nectar sup,
     I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
     Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope, that there
     It could not withered be.
But thou thereon did’st only breathe,
     And sent it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
     Not of itself, but thee.

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