Thomas Carew

Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break? I will answer: These discover What doubts and fears are in a lover.

This firstling of the infant year.

Give me a wench about thirteen, Already voted to the Queen Of lust and lovers.

But if the envious nymphs shall fear Their beauties will be scorn'd, And hire the ruder winds to tear That face which you adorn'd;Then rage and foam amain, that we Their malice may despise; And from your froth we soon shall see

Stand still, you floods, do not deface That image which you bear: So votaries, from every place, To you shall altars rear.No winds but lovers' sighs blow here, To trouble these glad streams, On which no star from any sphere

The magic of a face.

Here lies a king, that ruled as he thought fit The universal monarchy of wit.

The Muses’ garden with pedantic weeds O’erspread, was purged by thee; the lazy seeds Of servile imitation thrown away, And fresh invention planted.

So though a virgin, yet a bride To every Grace, she justified A chaste polygamy, and died.

Good to the poor, to kindred dear, To servants kind, to friendship clear, To nothing but herself severe.

And here the precious dust is laid, Whose purely tempered clay was made So fine that it the guest betrayed. Else the soul grew so fast within, It broke the outward shell of sin, And so was hatched a cherubin.

The purest soul that e'er was sent Into a clayey tenement.

Though a stranger to this place, Bewail in theirs thine own hard case: For thou perhaps at thy return Mayst find thy darling in an urn.

No tears, Celia, now shall win My resolved heart to return; I have search'd thy soul within, And find nought but pride and scorn; I have learned thy arts, and now Can disdain as much as thou.

But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires.

He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires,— As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away.

Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils.

Know, Celia (since thou art so proud,) ’Twas I that gave thee thy renown. Thou had’st in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties lived unknown, Had not my verse extolled thy name, And with it imped the wings of fame.

If the stout foe will not resign, When I besiege a town, I lose but what was never mine; But he that is cast down From enjoy’d beauty, feels a woe Only deposèd kings can know.

I thought Love’s plagues, like dragons, sat Only to fright us at the gate.

If ev'ry sweet, and ev'ry grace, Must fly from that forsaken face.

When thou, poor excommunicate From all the joys of love, shalt see The full reward and glorious fate Which my strong faith shall purchase me, Then curse thine own inconstancy.

Then fly betimes, for only they Conquer Love that run away.

Nets of passion’s finest thread, Snaring poems, will be spread, All to catch thy maidenhead.