O Loue, where are thy Shafts, thy Quiuer, and thy Bow?
Shall my wounds onely weepe, and hee vngaged goe?
Be iust, and strike him, too, that dares contemne thee so.
No eyes are like to thine, though men suppose thee blinde,
So fayre they leuell when the marke they list to finde:
Then, strike, ô strike the heart that beares the cruell minde.
Is my fond sight deceiued? or do I Cupid spye,
Close ayming at his breast, by whom despis'd I dye?
Shoot home, sweet Loue, and wound him, that hee may not flye.
O then we both will sit in some vnhaunted shade,
And heale each others wound which Loue hath iustly made:
O hope, ô thought too vaine, how quickly dost thou fade!
At large he wanders still, his heart is free from paine,
While secret sighes I spend, and teares, but all in vaine:
Yet, Loue, thou know'st, by right, I should not thus complaine.
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Thomas Campion
Audio file by Katarina A. Karlsson, 
