THOMAS CAREW, the descendant of an ancient family in Devonshire, is supposed to have been born in 1589. He was educated at Christ's College, Oxford; though it does not appear that he was ever matriculated, or took a degree. His accomplishments were chiefly derived from travelling and conversation. Philips says, he was reckoned among the chiefest of his time, for delicacy of wit and poetic fancy; and Wood tells us, he was famed for the charming sweetness of his lyric odes, and amorous sonnets.' We know nothing more of him, than that he was made gentleman of the privy chamber, and sewer in ordinary to King Charles I.; and that he was almost worshipped by his cotemporaries, Jonson, Davenant, Donne, May, and Suckling. He died in 1639.
Carew is an amorous sonnetter. His verses are polished and pointed; and it is only from the testimony of cotemporaries, that we should ascertain him to have been a laborious and difficult writer. His licentiousness, we suppose, must be charged to the age of Charles I.; and we can state, on the authority of Clarendon, that he died with the greatest remorse for the dissoluteness of his life and writings. According to a MS. of Oldys, Carew's sonnets were more in request than any poet's of his time;' and the masque of Calum Brittanicum was so much ad
mired, that the king and some young lords per formed it, at Whitehall, Feb. 18, 1633. But times and tastes have changed; and ungrateful posterity are contented to live with only an occasional glance at the sonnets and masque of Carew.
Now that the winter's gone, the Earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake, or chrystal stream:
But the warm Sun thaws the benumbed Earth
And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow, wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckow and the humble bee.
Now do a quire of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world, the youthful Spring
The vallies, hills, and woods, in rich array,
Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May.
Now all things smile; only my love doth low'r
Nor hath the scalding noon-day Sun the pow'r
To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold
Her heart congeal'd, and makes her pity cold,
The ox, which lately did for shelter fly
Into the stall, doth now securely lie
In open fields and love no more is made
By the fire-side; but in the cooler shade
Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep
Under a sycamore, and all things keep
Time with the season; only she doth carry
June in her eyes, in her heart January.
PERSUASIONS TO LOVE.
THINK not, 'cause men flatt'ring say,
Y' are fresh as April, sweet as May,
Bright as is the morning-star,
That you are so; or though you are,
Be not therefore proud, and deem
All men unworthy your esteem:
For being so, you lose the pleasure
Of being fair, since that rich treasure
Of rare beauty and sweet feature
Was bestow'd on you by nature
To be enjoy'd, and 'twere a sin
There to be scarce, where she hath been
So prodigal of her best graces;
Thus common beauties and mean faces
Shall have more pastime, and enjoy
The sport you lose by being coy.
Did the thing for which I sue,
Only concern myself, not you;
Were men so fram'd as they alone
Reap'd all the pleasure, women none,
Then had you reason to be scant;
But 'twere a madness not to grant
That which affords (if you consent)
To you, the giver, more content
Than me the beggar; oh then be
Kind to yourself, if not to me;
Starve not yourself, because you may
Thereby make me pine away;
Nor let brittle beauty make
You your wiser thoughts forsake:
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