Poems by Thomas Carew

All Poems Original Poems Translations

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To His Lady

ASK me no more where Jove bestows,

When June is past, the fading rose;

For in your beauties' orient deep,

These flow'rs, 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.

by Thomas Carew

Unfading Beauty

Hee, that loves a rosie cheeke,

Or a corall lip admires,

Or from star-like eyes doth seeke

Fuell to maintaine his fires,

As old time makes these decay,

So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,

Gentle thoughts and calme desires,

by Thomas Carew

To Saxham

Though frost and snow lock'd from mine eyes

That beauty which without door lies,

Thy gardens, orchards, walks, that so

I might not all thy pleasures know,

Yet, thou within thy gate

Art of thyself so delicate,

So full of native sweets, that bless

Thy roof with inward happiness,

by Thomas Carew

Epitaph On The Late Mary Villiers

The Lady Mary Villiers lies

Under this stone; with weeping eyes

The parents that first gave her breath,

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,

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.

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.

by Thomas Carew

Epitaph For Maria Wentworth

And here the precious dust is laid;

Whose purely-tempe r'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,

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;

by Thomas Carew

The Compliment

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;

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.

by Thomas Carew

Epitaph On The Lady Mary Villiers

This little vault, this narrow room,

Of Love, and Beauty, is the tomb;

The dawning beam that gan to clear

Our clouded sky, lies darken'd here,

Forever set to us, by death

Sent to inflame the world beneath.

'Twas but a bud, yet did contain

More sweetness than shall spring again;

by Thomas Carew

Boldness In Love

Mark how the bashful morn in vain

Courts the amorous marigold,

With sighing blasts and weeping rain,

Yet she refuses to unfold.

But when the planet of the day

Approacheth with his powerful ray,

The she spreads, then she receives

His warmer beams into her virgin leaves.

by Thomas Carew