[Born towards 1589, died in 1639. Carew was in great favour with Charles I. and his court; a man of pleasure, gallantry, fancy, and wit. When these allurements came to their close in a mortal illness, very different cares possessed him, and he died an "edifying" death].
TO A. D., UNREASONABLY DISTRUSTFUL OF HER OWN
FAIR Doris, break thy glass; it hath perplexed,
With a dark comment, beauty's clearest text;
It hath not told thy face's story true,
But brought false copies to thy jealous view.
No colour, feature, lovely hair, or grace,
That ever yet adorned a beauteous face,
But thou must read in thine, or justly doubt
Thy glass hath been suborned to leave it out;
But, if it offer to thy nice survey
A spot, a stain, a blemish, or decay,
It not belongs to thee--the treacherous light
Or faithless stone abuse thy credulous sight.
Perhaps the magic of thy face hath wrought
Upon the enchanted crystal, and so brought
Fantastic shadows to delude thine eyes
With airy repercussive sorceries;
Or else the enamoured image pines away
For love of the fair object, and so may
Wax pale and wan, and, though the substance grow
Lively and fresh, that may consume with woe.
Give then no faith to the false specular stone,
But let thy beauties by the effects be known.
Look, sweetest Doris, on my lovesick heart;
In that true mirror see how fair thou art.
There, by Love's never-erring pencil drawn,
Shalt thou behold thy face, like the early dawn,
Shoot through the shady covert of thy hair,
Enamelling and perfuming the calm air
With pearls and roses, till thy suns display
Their lids, and let out the imprisoned day;
Whilst Delphic priests, enlightened by their theme,
In amorous numbers court thy golden beam,
And from Love's altars clouds of sighs arise
In smoking incense to adore thine eyes.
If then love flow from beauty as the effect,
How canst thou the resistless cause suspect?
Who would not brand that fool that should contend
There was no fire where smoke and flames ascend?
Distrust is worse than scorn; not to believe
My harms is greater wrong than not to grieve;
What cure can for my festering sore be found,
Whilst thou believ'st thy beauty cannot wound?
Such humble thoughts more cruel tyrants prove
Than all the pride that e'er usurped in love;
For beauty's herald here denounceth war,-
There are false spies betray me to a snare.
If fire disguised in balls of snow were hurled,
It unsuspected might consume the world;
Where our prevention ends, danger begins.
So wolves in sheep's, lions in asses' skins,
Might far more mischief work, because less feared;
Those the whole flock, these might kill all the herd.
Appear then as thou art, break through this cloud,
Confess thy beauty, though thou thence grow proud;
Be fair though scornful; rather let me find
Thee cruel than thus mild, and more unkind;
Thy cruelty doth only me defy,
But these dull thoughts thee to thyself deny.
Whether thou mean to barter or bestow
Thyself, 'tis fit thou thine own value know.
I will not cheat thee of thyself, nor pay
Less for thee than thou art worth; thou shalt not say
That is but brittle glass which I have found
By strict enquiry a firm diamond.
I'll trade with no such Indian fool as sells
Gold, pearls, and precious stones, for beads and bells;
Nor will I take a present from your hand
Which you or prize not or not understand.
It not endears your bounty that I do
Esteem your gift, unless you do so too;
You undervalue me when you bestow
On me what you nor care for, nor yet know.
No, lovely Doris, change thy thoughts, and be
In love first with thyself, and then with me.
You are afflicted that you are not fair,
And I as much tormented that you are.
What I admire you scorn; what I love, hate;
Through different faiths, both share an equal fate.
Fast to the truth, which you renounce, I stick ;
I die a martyr, you an heretic.
TO MY FRIEND G. N., FROM WREST.
I BREATHE, Sweet Ghib, the temperate air of Wrest,
Where I, no more with raging storms oppressed,
Wear the cold nights out by the banks of Tweed,
On the bleak mountains where fierce tempests breed,
And everlasting winter dwells; where mild
Favonius and the vernal winds, exiled,
Did never spread their wings; but the wild north
Brings sterile fern, thistles, and brambles forth.
Here, steeped in balmy dew, the pregnant earth
Sends forth her teeming womb a flowery birth;
And, cherished with the warm sun's quickening heat,
Her porous bosom doth rich odours sweat,
Whose perfumes through the ambient air diffuse
Such native aromatics as we use
No foreign gums, nor essence fetched from far,
No volatile spirits, nor compounds that are
Adulterate; but, as nature's cheap expense,
With far more genuine sweets refresh the sense.
Such pure and uncompounded beauties bless
This mansion with an useful comeliness,
Devoid of art; for here the architect
Did not with curious skill a pile erect
Of carved marble, touch, or porphyry,
But built a house for hospitality.
No sumptuous chimney-piece of shining stone
Invites the stranger's eye to gaze upon,
And coldly entertains his sight; but clear
And cheerful flames cherish and warm him here.
No Doric nor Corinthian pillars grace
With imagery this structure's naked face.
The lord and lady of this place delight
Rather to be in act than seem in sight.
Instead of statues to adorn their wall,
They throng with living men their merry hall,
Where, at large tables filled with wholesome meats,
The servant, tenant, and kind neighbour, eats.
Some of that rank spun of a finer thread
Are, with the women, steward, and chaplain, fed
With daintier cates. Others of better note,
Whom wealth, parts, office, or the herald's coat,
Have severed from the common, freely sit
At the lord's table; whose spread sides admit
A large access of friends, to fill those seats
Of his capacious circle, filled with meats
Of choicest relish, till his oaken back
Under the load of piled-up dishes crack.
Nor think, because our pyramids and high
Exalted turrets threaten not the sky,
That therefore Wrest of narrowness complains,
Or strengthened walls; for she more numerous trains
Of noble guests daily receives, and those
Can with far more convenïence dispose,
Than prouder piles, where the vain builder spent
More cost in outward gay embellishment
Than real use, which was the sole design
Of our contriver, who made things not fine,
But fit for service. Amalthea's horn
Of plenty is not in effigy worn
Without the gate; but she within the door
Empties her free and unexhausted store.
Nor, crowned with wheaten wreaths, doth Ceres stand
In stone, with a crook'd sickle in her hand;
Nor, on a marble tun, his face besmeared
With grapes, is curled, unscissored Bacchus reared : We offer not in emblems to the eyes,
But to the taste, those useful deities.
We press the juicy god, and quaff his blood,
And grind the yellow goddess into food.
Yet we decline not all the work of art;
But, where more bounteous Nature bears a part,
And guides her handmaid if she but dispense
Fit matter, she with care and diligence
Employs her skill. For where the neighbour source
Pours forth her waters, she directs their course,
And entertains the flowing streams in deep
And spacious channels, where they slowly creep
In snaky windings, as the shelving ground
Leads them in circles, till they twice surround
This island mansion; which, i' the centre placed,
Is with a double crystal heaven embraced,
In which our watery constellations float,
Our fishes, swans, our waterman and boat,
Envied by those above, who wish to slake
Their star-burnt limbs in our refreshing lake.
But they stick fast, nailed to the barren sphere;
Whilst our increase, in fertile waters here,
Disport and wander freely where they please,
Within the circuit of our narrow seas.
With various trees we fringe the water's brink,
Whose thirsty roots the soaking moisture drink
And whose extended boughs, in equal ranks,
Yield fruit and shade and beauty to the banks.
On this side young Vertumnus sits, and courts
His ruddy-cheeked Pomona; Zephyr sports
On the other with loved Flora, yielding there
Sweets for the smell, sweets for the palate here.
But, did you taste the high and mighty drink
Which from that fountain flows, you'd clearly think
The god of wine did his plump clusters bring,
And crush the Falerne grape into our spring;
Or else, disguised in watery robes, did swim
To Ceres' bed, and make her big of him,
Begetting to himself on her; for know
Our vintage here in March doth nothing owe
To theirs in autumn, but our fire boils here
As lusty liquor as the sun makes there.
Thus I enjoy myself, and taste the fruit
Of this bless'd peace; whilst, toiled in the pursuit
Of bucks and stags, th' emblem of war, you strive To keep the memory of our arms alive.
THE HUE AND CRY.
IN Love's name you are charged hereby
To make a speedy hue and cry
After a face which, t'other day,
Stole my wandering heart away.
To direct you, these, in brief,
Are ready marks to know the thief.
Her hair, a net of beams, would prove
Strong enough to captive Jove
In his eagle's shape; her brow
Is a comely field of snow;
Her eye so rich, so pure a grey,
Every beam creates a day;
And if she but sleep (not when
The sun sets) 'tis night again.
In her cheeks are to be seen
Of flowers both the king and queen,
Thither by the Graces led,
And freshly laid in nuptial bed;
On whom lips like nymphs do wait
Who deplore their virgin state;
Oft they blush,—and blush for this,
That they one another kiss.
But observe: besides the rest,
You shall know this felon best
By her tongue; for, if your ear
Once a heavenly music hear,
Such as neither gods nor men,
But from that voice, shall hear again—
That, that is she. Oh straight surprise,
And bring her unto Love's assize.
If you let her go, she may
Antedate the latter day,
Fate and philosophy control,
And leave the world without a soul.
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