Joseph Hudson: Music

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So tyr’d are all my thoughts, that sence and spirits faile;
Mourning I pine, and know not what I ayle.
O what can yeeld ease to a minde,
Joy in nothing that can finde?
How are my powres fore-spoke? what strange distaste is this?
Hence, cruell hate of that which sweetest is:
Come, come delight, make my dull braine
Feele once heate of joy againe.
The lovers teares are sweet, their mover makes them so;
Proud of a wound the bleeding Souldiers grow:
Poore I alone, dreaming, endure
Griefe that knows nor cause, nor cure.

-Thomas Campion