Come, Phyllis, come into these bowers:
Come, Phyllis, come, bright heaven’s eye
Cannot upon thy beauty pry;
Glad Echo in distinguished voice
Naming thee will here rejoice;
Then come and hear her merry lays
Crowning thy name with lasting praise.
From John Wilbye’s Second Set of Madrigals, 1609.
Come, shepherd swains, that wont to hear me sing,
From Two Books of Airs, by Thomas Campion (circ. 1613).
Come, you pretty false-eyed wanton,
Sooner may you count the stars
And number hail down-pouring,
Tell the osiers of the Thames,
Or Goodwin sands devouring,
Than the thick-showered kisses here
Which now thy tired lips must bear.
Such a harvest never was
So rich and full of pleasure,
But ’tis spent as soon as reaped,
So trustless is lore’s treasure.
From Thomas Campion’s Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).
Could my heart more tongues employ
Happy minds that can redeem
Their engagements how they please,
That no joys or hopes esteem
Half so precious as their ease:
Wisdom should prepare men so,
As if they did all foreknow.