WH

From all the joyes of love, shalt see

The full reward, and glorious fate,

Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
Then curse thine owne inconstancy.

A fayrer hand than thine, shall cure

That heart, which thy false öathes did wound;
And to my soul, a soul more pure

Than thine, shall by Loves hand be bound,
And both with equall glory crown'd.

Then shalt thou weepe, entreat, complain
To Love, as I did once to thee;
When all thy teares shall be as vain
As mine were then, for thou shalt bee

Damn'd for thy false Apostasie.

Thomas Carew.

A deposition from love.

Was foretold, your rebell sex,

Nor love, nor pitty knew;

And with what scorn you use to vex
Poor hearts that humbly sue;
Yet I believ'd, to crown our pain,
Could we the fortress win,

The happy Lover sure should gain
A Paradise within:

I thought Loves plagues, like Dragons sate,
Only to fright us at the gate.

His heat in spight 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 he ever love, that could retreat.

That noble flame, which my brest keeps alive,
Shall still survive,

When my soule's fled;

Nor shall my love dye, when my bodye's dead,

That shall wait on me to the lower shade,

And never fade:

My very

ashes in their urn,

Shall, like a hallowed Lamp, for ever burn.

Thomas Carew.

10

To a Lady that desired I would love her.

Now you have freely given me leave to love,

What will you doe?

Shall I your mirth, or passion move,

When I begin to wooe;

Will you torment, or scorn, or love me too?

Each petty beauty can disdain, and I,

Without

Spight of your hate,

your leave can see, and dye;
Dispence a nobler Fate,

Tis easie to destroy, you may create.

Then give me leave to love, and love me too
Not with designe

To rayse, as Loves curst Rebels doe,

When puling Poets whine,

Fame to their beauty, from their blubbr'd eyn.

Grief is a puddle, and reflects not clear

Your beauties rayes;

Joyes are pure streames, your eyes appear

Sullen in sadder layes,

In cheerfull numbers they shine bright with prayse.

Which shall not mention, to express you fayr,

Wounds, flames, and darts,

Storms in your brow, nets in your hair,

Suborning all your parts,

Or to betray, or torture captive hearts.

I'le make your eyes like morning Suns appear,
As mild, and fair;

Your brow as Crystal smooth, and clear,
And your dishevell❜d hayr

Shall flow like a calm Region of the Ayr.

Rich Nature's store, (which is the Poet's Treasure)

I'le spend, to dress

Your beauties, if your mine of Pleasure

In equall thankfulness

You but unlock, so we each other bless.

Thomas Carew.

A Song.

Sk me no more where Jove bestowes,

A When June is past, the fading rose:

For in your beauties orient deep,
These Flowers as in their causes sleep.

Ask me no more whither doe stray
The golden Atomes of the day:
For in pure love heaven did prepare
Those powders to inrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth hast
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 starres light,
That downwards fall in dead of night:

For in your eyes they sit, and there,

Fixed, become as in their sphere.

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