Poem by Thomas Campion

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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. View Me, Lord, a Work of Thine
3. Amaryllis
4. The Charm
5. To Music Bent Is My Retired Mind

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