Song After Campion

Ravished lute, sing to her virgin ears, Soft notes thy strings
repeating;
Plucked harp, whose amorous song she hears, Tell her
the time is fleeting;
Night-tide and my distress of love O speak, sweet numbers,
That pity her heart may move Before she slumbers.

Pale moth, that from the moon doth fly, Fickle
enchantments weaving, Night faery, come my lady nigh
When the rich masques are leaving;
Tell her who lieth still alone
Love is a treasure
Fair as the frail lute’s tone And perished measure.