Thomas Carew

We read of kings and gods that kindly took / A pitcher fill'd with water from the brook ; / But I have daily tender'd without thanks

I was foretold, your rebell sex, / Nor love, nor pitty knew; / And with what scorn you use to vex

In Nature’s pieces still I see / Some error, that might mended be; / Something my wish could still remove,

Go thou gentle whispering wind, / Bear this sigh; and if thou find / Where my cruel fair doth rest,

If the quick spirits in your eye / Now languish and anon must die; / If every sweet and every grace

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, / When June is past, the fading rose; / For in your beauty's orient deep

Can we not force from widow'd poetry, / Now thou art dead (great Donne) one elegy / To crown thy hearse? Why yet dare we not trust,

This little vault, this narrow room, / Of Love and Beauty is the tomb; / The dawning beam, that ‘gan to clear

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, / When June is past, the fading rose; / For in your beauty’s orient deep

Mark how the bashful morn in vain / Courts the amorous marigold, / With sighing blasts and weeping rain,