What then is loue but mourning?
Text by Thomas Campion
Music by Philip Rosseter
What then is loue but mourning?
What desire, but a selfe-burning?
Till shee that hates doth loue returne,
Thus will I mourne, thus will I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.
Beautie is but a blooming,
Youth in his glorie entombing ;
Time hath a while, which none can stay :
Then come away, while thus I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.
Sommer in winter fadeth ;
Gloomie night heaun'ly light shadeth :
Like to the morne are Venus flowers ;
Such are her howers : then will I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.