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Best Famous Thomas Carew Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Thomas Carew poems. This is a select list of the best famous Thomas Carew poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Thomas Carew poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Thomas Carew poems.

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Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


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Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written by Thomas Carew | |

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 
Thy comic muse, from the exalted line 
Touch'd by thy Alchemist, doth since decline 
From that her zenith, and foretells a red 
And blushing evening, when she goes to bed; 
Yet such as shall outshine the glimmering light 
With which all stars shall gild the following night.
Nor think it much, since all thy eaglets may Endure the sunny trial, if we say This hath the stronger wing, or that doth shine Trick'd up in fairer plumes, since all are thine.
Who hath his flock of cackling geese compar'd With thy tun'd choir of swans? or else who dar'd To call thy births deform'd? But if thou bind By city-custom, or by gavelkind, In equal shares thy love on all thy race, We may distinguish of their sex, and place; Though one hand form them, and though one brain strike Souls into all, they are not all alike.
Why should the follies then of this dull age Draw from thy pen such an immodest rage As seems to blast thy else-immortal bays, When thine own tongue proclaims thy itch of praise? Such thirst will argue drouth.
No, let be hurl'd Upon thy works by the detracting world What malice can suggest; let the rout say, The running sands, that, ere thou make a play, Count the slow minutes, might a Goodwin frame To swallow, when th' hast done, thy shipwreck'd name; Let them the dear expense of oil upbraid, Suck'd by thy watchful lamp, that hath betray'd To theft the blood of martyr'd authors, spilt Into thy ink, whilst thou growest pale with guilt.
Repine not at the taper's thrifty waste, That sleeks thy terser poems; nor is haste Praise, but excuse; and if thou overcome A knotty writer, bring the booty home; Nor think it theft if the rich spoils so torn From conquer'd authors be as trophies worn.
Let others glut on the extorted praise Of vulgar breath, trust thou to after-days; Thy labour'd works shall live when time devours Th' abortive offspring of their hasty hours.
Thou are not of their rank, the quarrel lies Within thine own verge; then let this suffice, The wiser world doth greater thee confess Than all men else, than thyself only less.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written by Thomas Carew | |

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 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 lour; 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.