Ask me no more whither doe 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 flyes,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

[From Carew's Poems, third edition. 12mo. 1651.]

INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED.

THOMAS CAREW.

Know Celia, (since thou art so proud,) 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown: Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd

Of common beauties liv'd unknown, Had not my verse exhal'd thy name And with it impt 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 borrow'd sphere, Lightning on him that fix'd thee there.

Tempt me with such affrights no more,
Lest what I made I uncreate:
Let fools thy mystic forms adore,

I'll know thee in thy mortal state.
Wise poets that wrapp'd truth in tales,
Knew her themselves through all her veils.

MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED.

THOMAS CAREW.

Give me more love, or more disdain;
The torrid or the frozen zone
Brings 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 a golden shower I swim in pleasure; if it prove

Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture hopes; and his possessed Of Heaven, that's but from hell releas'd: Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; Give me more love or more disdain.

THE PROTESTATION.

THOMAS CAREW.

No more shall meads be deck'd with flowers,
Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers;
Nor greenest buds on branches spring,
Nor warbling birds delight to sing;
Nor April violets paint the grove
If I forsake my Celia's love.

The fish shall in the ocean burn,
And fountains sweet shall bitter turn;
The humble oak no flood shall know
When floods shall highest hills o'erflow,
Black Lethe shall oblivion leave
If e'er my Celia I deceive.

Love shall his bow and shaft lay by,
And Venus' doves want wings to fly :
The sun refuse to shew his light,
And day shall then be turn'd to night,
And in that night no star appear;
If once I leave my Celia dear.

Love shall no more inhabit earth,
Nor lovers more shall love for worth;
Nor joy alone in Heaven dwell,
Nor pain torment poor souls in hell;
Grim Death no more shall horrid prove;
If e'er I leave bright Celia's love.

THE PRIMROSE.

THOMAS CAREW.

Ask me why I send you here
This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you

This primrose all bepearl'd with dew;
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are wash'd with tears:
Ask me why this flow'r doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why this stalk is weak,
And bending yet it doth not break;
I must tell you these discover

What doubts and fears are in a lover.

[This very pretty song of Carew's met the eye of Burns in an old collection-when he was gathering English songs for a proposed publication of Mr. George Thomson's. He writes:-" For Todlin Hame,' take the following old English song, which I dare say is but little known. I have altered it a little :-

THE PRIMROSE.

Dost ask me why I send thee here,
This firstling of the infant year-
Dost ask me what this Primrose shews
Bepearl'd thus with morning dews.

I must whisper to thy ears

The sweets of love are wash'd with tears,

This lovely native of the dale

Thou seest, how languid, pensive, pale.

Thou seest this bending stalk so weak
That each way yielding doth not break?
I must tell thee these reveal,

The doubts and fears that lovers feel."

[Burns' alteration is now printed for the first time.]

IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND.

THOMAS CAREW.

It is not beauty I demand,

A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair.

Tell me not of your starry eyes,
Your lips that seem of roses fed,
Your breasts where Cupid tumbling lies,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed.

A bloomy pair of vermil cheeks,
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,
A breath that softer music speaks
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers.

Give me instead of beauty's bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind,
Which with temptation I could trust,
Yet never linked with error ind.