Shall I come, sweet love, to thee
When the evening beams are set?
Shall I not excluded be?
Will you find no feigned let?
Let me not, for pity, more
Tell the long hours at your door.
Who can tell what the if or foe
In the convert of the night
For his prey will work my woe,
Or through wicked foul despise?
So shall I die unredressed,
Ere my long love be posessed.
But to let such dangers pass,
Which a lover's thoughts distain,
'Tis enough in such a place
To attend Love's joys in vain.
Do not mock me in thy bed,
While these cold nights freeze me dead.
Thomas Campion |
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