Thomas Campion

From heav'nly thoughts all true delight doth spring.

Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore.

Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly; to every day we live, a day we die.

Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow.

There is a garden in her eyes where roses and white lilies flow.

There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow. There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.