Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SECOND BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 18, by THOMAS CAMPION



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SECOND BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 18, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Come, you pretty false-eyed wanton
Last Line: And you my saint unnamed.
Subject(s): Carpe Diem


Come, you pretty false-eyed wanton,
Leave your crafty smiling.
Think you to escape me now
With slippery words beguiling?
No, you mocked me th' other day,
When you got loose, you fled away.
But since I have caught you now,
I'll clip your wings for flying;
Smothering kisses fast I'll heap,
And keep you so from crying.
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 love's treasure.
Would it were dumb midnight now,
When all the world lies sleeping.
Would this place some desert were,
Which no man hath in keeping.
My desires should then be safe,
And when you cried, then would I laugh.
But if aught might breed offence,
Love only should be blamed.
I would live your servant still,
And you my saint unnamed.





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