Thomas Campion
With his over 100 lute songs Thomas Campion can be regarded as one of the leading exponents of the form. There is no evidence that he played the lute himself, but his closest friend was the fine lutenist Philip Rosseter. The family held claims to nobility and were comfortably off with connections to the Inns of Court . . . Thomas was baptized in the nearby church of St Andrew’s, Holborn, in Feb. 1567. His father died in 1579 and two years later Thomas was enrolled at Peterhouse, Cambridge, age 14, where he must have been the junior member of Gabriel Harvey’s Areopagus “academie” to which Spenser and Sidney belonged. In such company Campion was soon drawn to literary endeavours. In 1586 he settled at Grey’s Inn which placed him in touch with future personages in government and at court, and his poetry began appearing alongside such luminaries as Philip Sidney.
His first lute songs appeared in Rosseter ‘A book of ayres’ (1601) and in 1607 he became increasingly involved in the Court masques. When Prince Henry died in 1611 the primary musical tribute was ‘Songs of Mourning bewailing the Untimely Death of Prince Henry: worded by Thomas Campion . . . ‘ (1612). His 4 ‘Bookes of Ayres . . . ‘ were printed between 1613 and 1617 and dedicated to Sir Thomas Monson his patron and co-defendant in a murder case, thankfully both were exonerated! He died in 1620 and buried at St Dunstan-in-the-West, Fleet Street. Never married he left a small inheritance to Rosseter.
I care not for these ladies
Written when Campion was a relatively young man this song is one of the 21 by Campion that Rosseter included in his ‘A Book of Ayres’ (1601)… . . . the year before his injunction about rhyme!
Thomas Campion "I care not for these"
I care not for these laidies
that must be woo’d and pray’d,
Give me kind Amarillis
the wanton country maid,
Nature art disdaineth,
her beaut1e is her own,
Her when we court and kiss,
She cries forsooth let go,
But when we come where comfort is
She never will say no.
If I love Amarillis’
she gives me fruit and flowers,
But if we love these ladies,
we must give golden showers,
Give them gold that sell love,
give me the Nutbrowne lasse,
Her when we court and kiss . . .
These ladies must have pillows,
and beds by strangers wrought,
Give me a bower of willowes,
of mosse and leaves unbought,
And fresh Amarillis
with milk and honey fed,
Who when we court and kiss . . .
Now hath Flora robb’d
‘The Discription of a Maske, presented before the Kinges Majestie at White-Hall, on Twelfth Night . . . in honour of the Lord Hayes, and His Bride’. This is one of two songs Campion wrote for Lord Hayes’ masque in 1607.
Thomas Campion "Now hath Flora robb'd"
Now hath Flora rob’d her bowers
To befrend this place with flowers :
Strowe aboute, strowe aboute.
The Skye rayn’d neuer kindlyer Showers.
Flowers with Bridalls well agree,
Fresh as Brides, and Bridgromes be :
Strowe aboute, strowe aboute ;
And mixe them with fit melodie.
Earth hath no Princelier flowers
Then Roses white, and Roses red,
But they must still be mingled :
And as a Rose new pluckt from Venus thorne,
So doth a Bride her Bride-groomes bed adorne.
Diuers diuers Flowers affect
For some priuate deare respect :
Strowe about, strow about,
Let euery one his owne protect
But hees none of Floras friend
That will not the Rose commend
.Strow about, strow about ;
Let Princes Princely flowers defend :
Roses, the Gardens pride,
Are flowers for loue and flowers for Kinges,
In courts desir’d and Weddings :
And as a Rose in Venus bosome worne,
So doth a Bridegroome his Brides bed adorne.
Oft have I sigh’d
This dolorous love lament is from Campion’s ‘Third Book of Lute-songs’. In his ‘Observations in the Art of English Poesie’ (1602) he disparages rhyme in poetry. He seems to have revised his opinion by 1617.
Thomas Campion "Oft Have I sigh'd"
Oft have I sigh’d for him that hears me not:
Who absent hath both love and mee forgot,
O yet I languish still through his delay
As years, when wisht-friends break their day.
Had he but lov’d as common lovers used
His faithless stay some kindness would excuse
Oh yet I languish still, still constant mourn
For him that can break vowes, but not return.