Come away, come, sweet love
Come away, come, sweet love, the golden morning breaks.
Teach thine arms then to embrace, and sweet rosy lips to kiss,
and mix our souls in mutual bliss.
All the earth, all the air of love and pleasure speaks.
Eyes were made for beauty's grace, viewing rueing love's long pain,
procur'd by beauty's rude disdain.
Come away, come, sweet love, the golden morning wastes,
while the sun from his sphere his fiery arrows casts,
making all the shadows fly, playing, staying, in the grove
to entertain the stealth of love.
Thither, sweet love, let us hie, flying, dying in desire,
wing'd with sweet hopes and heav'nly fire.
Come away, come, sweet love, do not in vain adorn
beauty's grace that should rise like to the naked morn;
lilies on the river's side and fair Cyprian flow'rs new blown
desire no beauties but their own.
Ornament is nurse of pride, pleasure, measure, love's delight;
haste then, sweet love, our wished flight.
John Dowland, 1562-1626
From: The First Book of Songes or Ayres, 1597