Thomas Carew

Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; Give me more love or more disdain; The torrid or the frozen zone: Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none: Either extreme, of love or hate,

If she repent, and would make me amends, Bid her but send me hers, and we are friends.

So grieves th' advent'rous merchant, when he throws All his long-toil'd-for treasure his ship stows Into the angry main.

Of such a goddess no times leave record, That burnt the temple where she was adored.

She hath too much divinity for me: You gods, teach her some more humanity.

And old folks say there are no pains Like itch of love in agèd veins.

Think not, 'cause men flatt'ring say, Y' are fresh as April, sweet as May, Bright as the morning star, That you are so.

Love no more is made By the fireside, but in the cooler shade.