Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
176. O come quickly!
1 min to read
82 words

NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more, Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast: O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise, Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes: Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessed only see: O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!

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John Reynolds. 16th Cent.
177. A Nosegay
1 min to read
176 words
Return to The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250–1900






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