Jared Stein's List: Poets - Thomas Campion

There is a Garden in her face,
 Where Roses and white Lillies grow ;
 A heau'nly paradice is that place,
 Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.
 There Cherries grow, which none may buy
 Till Cherry ripe themselues doe cry.
 
 Those Cherries fayrely doe enclose
 Of Orient Pearle a double row ;
 Which when her louely laughter showes,
 They look like Rose-buds fill'd with snow.
 Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy,
 Till Cherry ripe themselues doe cry.
 
 Her Eyes like Angels watch them still ;
 Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,
 Threatning with piercing frownes to kill
 All that attempt with eye or hand
 Those sacred Cherries to come nigh,
 Till Cherry ripe themselues doe cry.

 
 When thou must home to shades of vnder ground,
 And there ariu'd, a newe admired guest,
 The beauteous spirits do ingirt thee round,
 White Iope, blith Hellen, and the rest,
 To heare the stories of thy finisht loue
 From that smoothe toong whose musicke hell can moue ;
 
 Then wilt thou speake of banqueting delights,
 Of masks and reuels which sweete youth did make,
 Of Turnies and great challenges of knights,
 And all these triumphes for thy beauties sake :
 When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
 Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murther me.

 
 When to her lute Corrina sings,
 Her voice reuiues the leaden stringes,
 And doth in highest noates appeare,
 As any challeng'd eccho cleere ;
 But when she doth of mourning speake,
 Eu'n with her sighes the strings do breake.
 
 And as her lute doth liue or die,
 Led by her passion, so must I,
 For when of pleasure she doth sing,
 My thoughts enioy a sodaine spring,
 But if she doth of sorrow speake,
 Eu'n from my hart the strings doe breake.