Thus those celestial fires,
Though seeming mute,

The fallacy of our desires
And all the pride of life confute:

For they have watched since first
The world had birth,

And found sin in itself accurst,

And nothing permanent on earth.

1640.

THOMAS CAREW

DISDAIN RETURNED

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.

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!

A DEPOSITION FROM LOVE

I was foretold your rebel sex
Nor love nor pity knew,

And with what scorn you use to vex
Poor hearts that humbly sue;

1640.

5

Yet I believed, to crown our pain,
Could we the fortress win,
The happy lover sure should gain

A paradise within:

I thought love's plagues like dragons sate,
Only to fright us at the gate.

But I did enter, and enjoy

What happy lovers prove,

For I could kiss, and sport, and toy,
And taste those sweets of love
Which, had they but a lasting state,
Or if in Celia's breast

The force of love might not abate,

Jove were too mean a guest.

5

ΙΟ

155

'T was but a bud, yet did contain

More sweetness than shall spring again;

5

A budding star, that might have grown
Into a sun when it had blown.
This hopeful beauty did create
New life in Love's declining state;
But now his empire ends, and we
From fire and wounding darts are free;
His brand, his bow, let no man fear:
The flames, the arrows, all lie here.

ΙΟ

15

1640.

ASK ME NO MORE WHERE JOVE BESTOWS

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.

5

ΙΟ

15

20

SIR JOHN SUCKLING

WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND LOVER

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame; this will not move,

This cannot take her.

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:

The devil take her!

1637 or 1638.

FROM

A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,

5

ΙΟ

15

1638.

Where I the rarest things have seen;
O, things without compare!
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing Cross, hard by the way,
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,

There is a house with stairs;

And there did I see coming down
Such folk as are not in our town,
Forty, at least, in pairs.

5

ΙΟ

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine

(His beard no bigger, though, than thine)

Walked on before the rest.

15

Our landlord looks like nothing to him:

The King (God bless him!) 't would undo him,
Should he go still so drest.

At Course-a-Park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' th' town,
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the Green,

Or Vincent of the Crown.

20

20

But wot you what? the youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing;

25

The parson for him stayed.

Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past,

Perchance, as did the maid.

The maid (and thereby hangs a tale),
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale
Could ever yet produce:

No grape, that's kindly ripe, could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

30

35

Her finger was so small the ring

Would not stay on, which they did bring;