When thou must home to shades of under ground

From Thomas Campion’s A Booke of Ayres, number XX (pg. 17 of my Percival Vivian-edited edition, preserving the editor’s spelling and punctuation):

When thou must home to shades of under ground,
And there ariv’d, a newe admired guest,
The beauteous spirits do ingirt thee round,
White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,
To heare the stories of thy finisht love
From that smoothe toong whose musicke hell can move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
Of masques and revels which sweete youth did make,
Of Turnies and great challenges of knights,
And all these triumphes for thy beauties sake:
When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me.

I had to look up Iope – who turned out a lesser wife of Theseus, as mentioned by Plutarch (Theseus 29.1). I wonder how Campion came to choose the name.

There are, however, other stories also about marriages of Theseus which were neither honourable in their beginnings nor fortunate in their endings, but these have not been dramatised. For instance, he is said to have carried off Anaxo, a maiden of Troezen, and after slaying Sinis and Cercyon to have ravished their daughters; also to have married Periboea, the mother of Aias, and Phereboea afterwards, and Iope, the daughter of Iphicles;

All our pride is but a jest

In the Percival Vivian edition of Thomas Campion this appears as the final entry in the first Book of Airs with no question of attribution, but Walter Davis’ 1967 edition places that whole collection under the category of ‘Doubtful Poems.’

Whether men doe laugh or weepe,
Whether they doe wake or sleepe,
Whether they die yoong or olde,
Whether they feele heate or colde,
There is, underneath the sunne,
Nothing in true earnest done.

All our pride is but a jest;
None are worst, and none are best;
Griefe, and joy, and hope, and feare
Play their Pageants every where:
Vaine opinion all doth sway,
And the world is but a play.

Powers above in cloudes doe sit,
Mocking our poore apish wit
That so lamely, with such state,
Their high glorie imitate:

No ill can be felt but paine,
And that happie men disdaine.