Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,
Never tiréd 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 Blesséd only see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!
— Thomas Campion
1567?-1619
