Thomas Carew

Here lies a King that ruled, as he thought fit The universal monarchy of wit; Here lies two flamens, and both those the best: Apollo's first, at last the true God's priest.

The magic of a face.

Give me more love or more disdain; The torrid or the frozen zone: Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none.

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.

Sweetly breathing, vernal air, That with kind warmth doth repair Winter's ruins; from whose breast All the gums and spice of the East Borrow their perfumes; whose eye Gilds the morn, and clears the sky.

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 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 if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

Then fly betimes, for only they Conquer Love that run away.

Thou shalt confess the vain pursuit Of human glory yields no fruit But an untimely grave.