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- HE that loves a rosy cheek,
- Or a coral lip admires,
- Or from starlike eyes doth seek
- Fuel to maintain his fires;
- As old Time makes these decay,
- So his flames must waste away.
- But a smooth and steadfast mind,
- Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
- Hearts with equal love combined,
- Kindle never-dying fires.
- Where these are not, I despise
- Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.
- No tears, Celia, now shall win
- My resolved heart to return;
- I have searched thy soul within,
- And find naught but pride and scorn;
- I have learned thy arts, and now
- Can disdain as much as thou.
- Some power, in my revenge convey
- That love to her I cast away.
- Thomas Carew
- 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,
- Is sweeter than a calm estate.
- Give me a storm; if it be love,
- Like Danae in that golden shower,
- I swim in pleasure; if it prove
- Disdain, that torrent will devour
- My vulture hopes; and he's possessed
- Of heaven, that's but from hell released.
- Then crown my joys, or cure my pain;
- Give me more love, or more disdain.
- Thomas Carew
- ASK me no more where Jove bestows,
- When June is past, the fading rose;
- For in your beauty's orient deep
- These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
- Ask me no more whither doth stray
- The golden atoms of the day;
- For in pure love heaven did prepare
- Those powders to enrich your hair.
- Ask me no more whither doth haste
- The nightingale, when May is past;
- For in your sweet, dividing throat
- She winters, and keeps warm her note.
- Ask me no more where those stars light,
- That downwards fall in dead of night;
- For in your eyes they sit, and there
- Fixed become, as in their sphere.
- Ask me no more if east or west
- The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
- For unto you at last she flies,
- And in your fragrant bosom dies.
- Thomas Carew
- IF the quick spirits in your eye
- Now languish, and anon must die;
- If every sweet, and every grace
- Must fly from that forsaken face;
- Then, Celia, let us reap our joys,
- Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.
- Or if that golden fleece must grow
- Forever, free from aged snow;
- If those bright suns must know no shade,
- Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;
- Then fear not, Celia, to bestow
- What, still being gathered, still must grow.
- Thus, either Time his sickle brings
- In vain, or else in vain his wings.
- Thomas Carew
- NOW that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost
- Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
- Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
- Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;
- But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,
- And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth
- To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree
- The drowsy cuckoo and the humble-bee.
- Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
- In triumph to the world the youthful spring.
- The valleys, hills, and woods in rich array
- Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May.
- Now all things smile; only my love doth
- Nor hath the scalding noonday sun the power
- To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold
- Her heart congeal'd, and makes her pity cold.
- The ox, which lately did for shelter fly
- Into the stall, doth now securely lie
- In open fields; and love no more is made
- By the fireside, but in the cooler shade
- Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep
- Under a sycamore, and all things keep
- Time with the season; only she doth carry
- June in her eyes, in her heart January.
- Thomas Carew
[Ed. Note: Carew bases this poem on the commonly-held distinction between things divinely created, which were perfect, and those created by Nature, which were not and upon which Man could improve. --Nelson]
- IN Nature's pieces still I see
- Some error, that might mended be;
- Something my wish could still remove,
- Alter or add; but my fair love
- Was fram'd by hands far more divine
- For she hath ev'ry beauteous line;
- Yet I had been far happier,
- Had Nature, that made me, made her.
- Then likeness might, that love creates,
- Have made her love what now she hates;
- Yet, I confess, I cannot spare
- From her just shape the smallest hair;
- Nor need I beg from all the store
- Pf heaven for her one beauty more.
- She hath too much divinity for me;
- Ye gods, teach her some more humanity.
- Thomas Carew
- HOW ill doth he deserve a lover's name,
- Whose pale weak flame
- Cannot retain
- His heat, in spite of absence or disdain;
- But doth at once, like paper set on fire,
- Burn and expire;
- True love can never change his seat,
- Nor did her ever love, that could retreat.
- That noble flame which my breast keeps alive
- Shall still survive
- When my soul's fled;
- Nor shall my love die when my body's dead,
- That shall wait on me to the lower shade,
- And never fade;
- My very ashes in their urn
- Shall, like a hallow'd lamp, forever burn.
- Thomas Carew
[Ed. Note: Saxham was the country estate of Sir John Crofts with whose family Carew had a close relationship; the poem is patterned on Ben Jonson's "To Penshurst." --Nelson]
- THOUGH frost and snow lock'd from mine eyes
- That beauty which without door lies,
- Thy gardens, orchards, walks, that so
- I might not all thy pleasures know,
- Yet, thou within thy gate
- Art of thyself so delicate,
- So full of native sweets, that bless
- Thy roof with inward happiness,
- As neither from nor to thy store
- Winter takes aught, or spring adds more.
- The cold and frozen air had
- Much poor, if not by thee preserv'd,
- Whose prayers have made thy table blest
- With plenty, far above the rest.
- The season hardly did afford
- Coarse cates* unto thy neighbors'
- Yet thou hadst dainties, as the sky
- Had only been thy
- Or else the birds, fearing the snow
- Might to another Deluge grow,
- The pheasant, partridge, and the lark
- Flew to thy house, as to the Ark.
- The willing ox of himself came
- Home to the slaughter, with the lamb,
- And every beast did thither bring
- Himself, to be an offering.
- The scaly herd more pleasure took,
- Bath'd in thy dish, than in the brook;
- Water, earth, air, did all conspire
- To pay their tributes to thy fire,
- Whose cherishing flames themselves divide
- Through every room, where they deride
- The night, and cold aboard; whilst they,
- Like suns within, keep endless day.
- Those cheerful beams send forth their light
- To all that wander in the night,
- And seem to beckon from
aloof* [a distance]
- The weary pilgrim to thy roof,
- Where if, refresh'd, he will away,
- He's faily welcome; or if stay,
- Far more; which he shall hearty find
- Both from the master and the
- The stranger's welcome each man there
- Stamp'd on his cheerful brow doth wear,
- Nor doth this welcome or his cheer
- Grow less 'cause he stays longer here;
- There's none observes, much less
- How often this man sups or dines.
- Thou hast no porter at the door
- T'examine or keep back the poor;
- Nor locks nor bolts: thy gates have been
- Made only to let strangers in;
- Untaught to shut, they do not fear
- To stand wide open all the year,
- Careless who enters, for they know
- Thou never didst deserve a foe;
- And as for thieves, thy bounty's such,
- They cannot steal, thou giv'st so much.
- Thomas Carew
[Ed. Note: Maria Wentworth was the granddaughter of Sir John Crofts; this poem, except for the final stanza, is inscribed on her tomb. --Nelson]
- AND here the precious dust is laid;
- Whose purely-temper'd clay was made
- So fine that it the guest betray'd.
- Else the soul grew so fast within,
- It broke the outward shell of sin,
- And so was hatch'd a cherubin.
- In height, it soar'd to God above;
- In depth, it did to knowledge move,
- And spread in breadth to general love.
- Before, a pious duty shin'd
- To parents, courtesy behind;
- On either side an equal mind.
- Good to the poor, to kindred dear,
- To servants kind, to friendship clear,
- To nothing but herself severe.
- So, though a virgin, yet a bride
- To ev'ry grace, she justified
- A chaste polygamy, and died.
- Learn from hence, reader, what small trust
- We owe this world, where virtue must,
- Frail as our flesh, crumble to dust.
- Thomas Carew
[Ed. Note: In the poem's concluding quatrain, Carew refers to the "two flamens" (priests) who are buried; he is stating that Donne was, as a poet, a priest of Apollo and, as a preacher, a priest of God. This poem appeared in Poems by J. D., published in 1633, two years after Donne's death. --Nelson]
- CAN we not force from widow'd poetry,
- Now thou art dead, great Donne, one elegy
- To crown thy hearse? Why yet dare we not trust,
- Though with unkneaded dough-bak'd* prose, thy
- Such as the unscissor'd* churchman, from the
- Of fading rhetoric, short-liv'd as his hour,
- Dry as the sand that measures it, should lay
- Upon thy ashes on the funeral day?
- Have we no voice, no tune? Didst thou dispense
- Through all our language both the words and sense?
- 'Tis a sad truth. The pulpit may her plain
- And sober Christian precepts still retain;
- Doctrines it may, and wholesome uses, frame,
- Grave homilies and lectures, but the flame
- Of thy brave soul, that shot such heat and light
- As burnt our earth, and made our darkness bright,
- Committed holy rapes upon our will,
- Did through the eye the melting heart distill,
- And the deep knowledge of dark* truths so
- As sense might judge what fancy could not reach,
- Must be desir'd forever. So the fire
- That fills with spirit and heat the Delphic
- Which, kindled first by thy Promethean breath,
- Glow'd here awhile, lies quench'd now in thy death.
- The Muses' garden, with pedantic weed
- O'erspread, was purg'd by thee; the lazy seeds
- Of servile imitation thrown away,
- And fresh invention plant'd. Thou didst pay
- The debts of our penurious bankrupt age;
- Licentious thefts, that make poetic rage
- A mimic fury, when our souls must be
- Possess'd, or with Anacreon's ecstacy,
- Or Pindar's, not their own; the subtle cheat
- Of sly exchanges, and the juggling feat
- Of two-edg'd words, or whatsoever wrong
- By ours was done the Greek, or Latin tongue,
- Thou hast redeem'd, and open'd us a mine
- Of rich and pregnant fancy; drawn a line
- Of masculine expression, which had good
- Old Orpheus see, or all the ancient brood
- Our superstitious fools admire, and hold
- Their lead more precious than thy burnish'd gold,
- Thou hadst been their exchequer, and no more
- They each in other's dust had rak'd for ore.
- Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time,
- And the blind fate of language, whose tun'd chime
- More charms the outward sense; yet thou mayst claim
- From so great disadvantage greater fame,
- Since to the awe of thy imperious wit
- Our stubborn language bends, made only fit
- With her tough thick-ribb'd hoops to gird about
- Thy giant fancy, which had prov'd too stout
- For their soft melting phrases. As in time
- They had the start, so did they cull the prime
- Buds of invention many a hundred year,
- And left the rifl'd fields, besides the fear
- To touch their harvest; yet from those bare lands
- Of what is purely thine, thy only hands,
- (And that thy smallest work) have gleaned more
- Than all those times and tongues could reap before.
- But thou art gone, and thy strict laws will be
- Too hard for libertines in poetry.
- They will repeal the goodly exil'd train
- Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just reign
- Were banish'd nobler poems; now, with these,
- The silenc'd tales o'th' Metamorphoses
- Shall stuff their lines, and swell the windy page,
- Till verse, refin'd by thee, in this last age
- Turn ballad-rhyme*, or those old idols
- Ador'd again with new apostasy.
- O pardon me, that break with untun'd verse
- The reverend silence that attends thy hearse,
- Whose aweful solemn murmurs were to thee,
- More than these faint lines, a loud elegy,
- That did proclaim in a dumb eloquence
- The death of all the arts, whose influence
- Grown feeble, in these panting numbers lies
- Gasping short-wind'd accents, and so dies.
- So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand
- In th'instant we withdraw the moving hand,
- But some small time maintain a faint weak course,
- By virtue of the first impulsive force;
- And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile
- Thy crown of bays, oh, let it crack awhile,
- And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes
- Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes.
- I will not draw the envy to
engross* &nbs; [enlarge
- All thy perfections, or weep all our loss;
- Those were too numerous for an elegy,
- And this too great to be express'd by me.
- Though ev'ry pen should share a distinct part,
- Yet art thou theme enough to 'tire* all
- Let others carve the rest; it shall suffice
- I on thy tomb this epitaph incise:
- Here lies a king, that rul'd as he thought fit
- The universal monarchy of wit;
- Here lie two falmens, and both those the best:
- Apollo's first, at last the true God's priest.
- Thomas Carew
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