When another holds your hand
You’ll swear I hold your heart;
Whilst my rival close doth stand
And I sit far apart,
I am nearer yet than they,
Hid in your bosom, as you say.
Is this fair excusing?
O no, all is abusing.
Would a rival then I were
Or[20] else a secret friend,
So much lesser should I fear
And not so much attend.
They enjoy you, every one,
Yet must I seem your friend alone.
Is this fair excusing?
O no, all is abusing.
[20] Old ed. “Some.”
From Giles Farnaby’s Canzonets, 1598.
Thrice blessèd be the giver
From Thomas Campion’s Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).
Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air,
Go, burn these poisonous weeds in yon blue fire,
These screech-owl’s feathers and this prickling briar,
This cypress gathered at a dead man’s grave,
That all my fears and cares an end may have.
Then come, you Fairies! dance with me a round!
Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound!
—In vain are all the charms I can devise:
She hath an art to break them with her eyes.