Thomas Campion (1567–1620)

SHALL I come, sweet Love, to thee

When the evening beams are set?

Shall I not excluded be?

Will you find no feignèd let?

Let me not, for pity, more

Tell the long hours at your door.

Who can tell what thief or foe,

In the covert of the night,

For his prey will work my woe,

Or through wicked foul despite?

So may I die unredrest

Ere my long love be possest.

But to let such dangers pass,

Which a lover’s thoughts disdain,

’Tis enough in such a place

To attend love’s joys in vain:

Do not mock me in thy bed,

While these cold nights freeze me dead.