Part 34

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

PERSUASIONS TO ENJOY

If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish and anon must die; If every sweet and every grace Must fly from that forsaken face: Then, Celia, let us reap our joys Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or, if that golden fleece must grow For ever free from aged snow; If those bright suns must know no shade, Nor your fresh beauties ever fade: Then fear not, Celia, to bestow What, still being gathered, still must grow.

Thus either Time his sickle brings In vain, or else in vain his wings.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

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 shower, I'll swim in pleasure; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes; and he's possessed Of heaven, that's but from hell released.

Then crown my joys, or cure my pain: Give me more love, or more disdain.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

THE MESSAGE

Ye little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phillis sweetly walks Within her garden-alleys; Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; Ah me! methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, See that your notes strain not too low, For still methinks I see her frown; Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tune your voices' harmony And sing, I am her lover; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her: And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice: - Yet still methinks I see her frown! Ye pretty wantons, warble.

O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber! Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder: Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you! And when you hear her kind reply, Return with pleasant warblings.

Thomas Heywood [ ? -1650?]

"HOW CAN THE HEART FORGET HER"

At her fair hands how have I grace entreated With prayers oft repeated! Yet still my love is thwarted: Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted - Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.

How often have my sighs declared my anguish, Wherein I daily languish! Yet still she doth procure it: Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it - Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.

But shall I still a true affection owe her, Which prayers, sighs, tears do show her, And shall she still disdain me? Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me - Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! She made me hers, and hers she will retain me.

But if the love that hath and still doth burn me No love at length return me, Out of my thoughts I'll set her: Heart, let her go, O heart I pray thee, let her! Say, shall she go? O no, no, no, no, no! Fixed in the heart, how can the heart forget her?

Francis Davison [fl. 1602]

TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA

Ye blushing virgins happy are In the chaste nunnery of her breasts - For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.

Transplanted thus how bright ye grow! How rich a perfume do ye yield! In some close garden cowslips so Are sweeter than in the open field.

In those white cloisters live secure From the rude blasts of wanton breath! - Each hour more innocent and pure, Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you room, Your glorious sepulcher shall be. There wants no marble for a tomb Whose breast hath marble been to me.