Thomas Carew
An Elegy upon the Death of the Dean of St. Paul's, Dr. John
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 dust, Such as
To My Inconstant Mistress
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. A fairer hand than
Celia Beeding, To the Surgeon
Fond man, that canst believe her blood Will from those purple channels flow; Or that the pure untainted flood Can any foul distemper know; Or that thy weak steel can incise The crystal case
Mediocrity in Love Rejected
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
The Spring
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
A Cruel Mistress
We read of kings and gods that kindly took A pitcher fill’d with water from the brook ; But I have daily tender’d without thanks Rivers of tears that overflow their banks. A slaughter’d
I Do Not Love Thee For That Fair
I do not love thee for that fair Rich fan of thy most curious hair; Though the wires thereof be drawn Finer than threads of lawn, And are softer than the leaves On which
Epitaph for Maria Wentworth
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
Secrecy Protested
FEAR not, dear love, that I’ll reveal Those hours of pleasure we two steal ; No eye shall see, nor yet the sun Descry, what thou and I have done. No ear shall hear
To Ben Jonson upon Occasion of his Ode of Defiance Annexed t
‘Tis true, dear Ben, thy just chastising hand Hath fix’d upon the sotted age a brand To their swoll’n pride and empty scribbling due; It can nor judge, nor write, and yet ’tis true
Song. Murdering Beauty
I’LL gaze no more on her bewitching face, Since ruin harbours there in every place ; For my enchanted soul alike she drowns With calms and tempests of her smiles and frowns. I’ll love
The Primrose
Ask me why I send you here The firstling of the infant year; Ask me why I send to you This primrose all bepearled with dew: I straight will whisper in your ears, The
A Song
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
Persuasions to Joy, a Song
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
Ask Me No More
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 do stray