Poem by Thomas Campion

* * *

When to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear,
As any challenged echo clear;
But when she doth of mourning speak,
E'en with her sighs, the strings do break,

And as her lute doth live or die,
Led by her passion, so must I:
For when of pleasure she doth sing,
My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring,
But if she doth of sorrow speak,
E'en from my heart the strings do break.

1. Fire That Must Flame Is with Apt Fuel Fed
2. Shall I Come, Sweet Love to Thee
3. To Music Bent Is My Retired Mind
4. Follow Your Saint
5. The Charm

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