Four songs to poems of Thomas Campion

Follow your saint follow with accents sweet,
Haste you sad noates fall at her flying feete,
There wrapt in cloud of sorrow pitie move,
And tell the ravisher of my soule, I perish for her love.
But if she scorns my never ceasing paine,
Then burst with sighing in her sight, and nere returne againe.

All that I soong still to her praise did tend,
Still she was first, still she my sings did end,
Yet she my love, and Musicke both does flie,
The Musicke that her Eccho is, and bauties simpathies;
Then let my Noates pursue her scornfull flight,
It shall suffice, that thex were breath'd and dyed for her delight.

There is a garden in her face,
  Where roses and white lilies [grow]1;
A heav'nly paradise is that place,
  Wherein all pleasant fruits do [flow]2.
There cherries grow, which none may buy
Till "Cherry ripe", themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
  Of orient pearl a double row;
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
  They look like rosebuds filled with snow.
Yet them no peer nor prince [can]3 buy
Till "Cherry ripe", themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
  Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
  All that [attempt]4 with eye or hand
[Those]5 sacred cherries to come nigh
Till "Cherry ripe", themselves do cry.

  Rose cheek'd Laura, come,
Sing thou sweetly with thy beauty's 
  Silent music, either other 
    Sweetly gracing.

  Lovely forms do flow
From concent divinely framed:
  Heaven is music, and thy beauty's 
     Birth is heav'nly.

  These dull notes we sing
Discords need for helps to grace them;
  Only beauty purely loving
    Knows no discord,

  But still moves delight,
Like clear springs renew'd by flowing,
  Ever perfect, ever in them-
    Selves eternal.

Followe thy faire sunne unhappy shaddowe
Though thou be blacke as night
And she made all of light,
Yet follow thy faire sunne unhappie shaddowe.

Follow her whose light thy light depriveth,
Though here thou liv'st disgrac't,
And she in heaven is plac't,
Yer lollow her whose light the world reviveth.

Follow those pure beames whose beautie burneth
That so have scorched thee,
As thou still blacke must bee,
Til her kind beames thy black to brightness turneth.

Follow her while yet her glorie shineth:
There comes a luckless night,
That will dim all light,
And this the black unhappie shade devineth.

Follow still since so thy fates ordained,
The sunne must have his shade,
Till both at once do fade,
The sun still approv'd the shadow still disdained.