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Best Famous Thomas Carew Poems

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by Thomas Carew | |

Know Celia Since Thou Art So Proud

 Know, Celia, since thou art so proud,
'Twas I that gave thee thy renown.
Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties lived unknown Had not my verse extolled thy name, And with it imped the wings of Fame.
That killing power is none of thine; I gave it to thy voice and eyes.
Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine; Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies: Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fixed thee there.
Tempt me with such affrights no more, Lest what I made I uncreate.
Let fools thy mystic form adore, I know thee in thy mortal state.
Wise poets, that wrapped truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils.


by Thomas Carew | |

Disdain Returned

 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.


by Thomas Carew | |

A Song: When June is Past the Fading Rose

 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 ph?nix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.


by Thomas Carew | |

Song. A Beautiful Mistress.

 IF when the sun at noon displays
His brighter rays, 
Thou but appear, 
He then, all pale with shame and fear,
Quencheth his light,
Hides his dark brow, flies from thy sight,
And grows more dim,
Compared to thee, than stars to him.
If thou but show thy face again, When darkness doth at midnight reign, The darkness flies, and light is hurl'd Round about the silent world : So as alike thou driv'st away Both light and darkness, night and day.


by Thomas Carew | |

Song. 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 calm estate.
Give me a storm ; if it be love, Like Dana? in that golden shower, I swim in pleasure ; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes ; and he's possess'd Of heaven, that's but from hell released.
Then crown my joys or cure my pain : Give me more love or more disdain.


by Thomas Carew | |

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 do 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.


by Thomas Carew | |

Epitaph On the Lady Mary Villiers

 THE Lady Mary Villiers lies 
Under this stone; with weeping eyes 
The parents that first gave her birth, 
And their sad friends, laid her in earth.
If any of them, Reader, were Known unto thee, shed a tear; Or if thyself possess a gem As dear to thee, as this to them, Though a stranger to this place, Bewail in theirs thine own hard case: For thou perhaps at thy return May'st find thy Darling in an urn.


by Thomas Carew | |

Song. Good Counsel to a Young Maid

 GAZE not on thy beauty's pride, 
Tender maid, in the false tide 
That from lovers' eyes doth slide.
Let thy faithful crystal show How thy colours come and go : Beauty takes a foil from woe.
Love, that in those smooth streams lies Under pity's fair disguise, Will thy melting heart surprise.
Nets of passion's finest thread, Snaring poems, will be spread, All to catch thy maidenhead.
Then beware ! for those that cure Love's disease, themselves endure For reward a calenture.
Rather let the lover pine, Than his pale cheek should assign A perpetual blush to thine.


by Thomas Carew | |

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 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.


by Thomas Carew | |

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 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.


by Thomas Carew | |

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 bull will appease angry Jove, A horse the Sun, a lamb the god of love, But she disdains the spotless sacrifice Of a pure heart, that at her altar lies.
Vesta is not displeased, if her chaste urn Do with repaired fuel ever burn ; But my saint frowns, though to her honour'd name I consecrate a never-dying flame.
Th' Assyrian king did none i' th' furnace throw But those that to his image did not bow ; With bended knees I daily worship her, Yet she consumes her own idolater.
Of such a goddess no times leave record, That burnt the temple where she was adored.


by Thomas Carew | |

A Divine Mistress

 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 every 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 Of heaven for her one beauty more.
She hath too much divinity for me: You gods, teach her some more humanity.


by Thomas Carew | |

He That Loves A Rosy Cheek

 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.
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.


by Thomas Carew | |

The Unfading Beauty

 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.
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.


by Thomas Carew | |

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 the subtle spider weaves.
I do not love thee for those flowers Growing on thy cheeks, love's bowers; Though such cunning them hath spread, None can paint them white and red: Love's golden arrows thence are shot, Yet for them I love thee not.
I do not love thee for those soft Red coral lips I've kissed so oft, Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard To speech whence music still is heard; Though from those lips a kiss being taken Mighty tyrants melt, and death awaken.
I do not love thee, O my fairest, For that richest, for that rarest Silver pillar, which stands under Thy sound head, that globe of wonder; Though that neck be whiter far Than towers of polished ivory are.


by Thomas Carew | |

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 sweets of love are washed with tears.
Ask me why this flower doth show So yellow, green, and sickly too; Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break: I must tell you, these discover What doubts and fears are in a lover.


by Thomas Carew | |

A prayer to the Wind

 Go thou gentle whispering wind,
Bear this sigh; and if thou find
Where my cruel fair doth rest,
Cast it in her snowy breast,
So, enflam'd by my desire,
It may set her heart a-fire.
Those sweet kisses thou shalt gain, Will reward thee for thy pain: Boldly light upon her lip, There suck odours, and thence skip To her bosom; lastly fall Down, and wander over all: Range about those ivory hills, From whose every part distills Amber dew; there spices grow, There pure streams of nectar flow; There perfume thyself, and bring All those sweets upon thy wing: As thou return'st, change by thy power, Every weed into a flower; Turn each thistle to a vine, Make the bramble eglantine.
For so rich a booty made, Do but this, and I am paid.
Thou canst with thy powerful blast, Heat apace, and cool as fast: Thou canst kindle hidden flame, And again destroy the same; Then for pity, either stir Up the fire of love in her, That alike both flames may shine, Or else quite extinguish mine.


by Thomas Carew | |

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 calm estate.
Give me a storm; if it be love, Like Danae in that golden show'r I swim in pleasure; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes; and he's possess'd Of heaven, that's but from hell releas'd.
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; Give me more love, or more disdain.


by Thomas Carew | |

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 our love, but we Silent as the night will be ; The god of love himself (whose dart Did first wound mine and then thy heart), Shall never know that we can tell What sweets in stol'n embraces dwell.
This only means may find it out ; If, when I die, physicians doubt What caused my death, and there to view Of all their judgements which was true, Rip up my heart, oh ! then, I fear, The world will see thy picture there.


by Thomas Carew | |

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 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.