Corb. O, but colour? Mos. This will, sir, you shall send it unto me. Or least regard, unto your proper issue, The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you Corb. I thought on that too. See, how he The very organ to express my thoughts! Mos. You have not only done yourself a good- Corb. Still, my invention. Mos. 'Las, sir! heaven knows, It hath been all my study, all my care, (I e'en grow gray withal,) how to work things- Mos. Your knowledge is no better than your ears, sir. Corb. I do not doubt, to be a father to thee. Mos. Your worship is a precious ass! Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste, sir. Volp. [leaping from his couch.] O, I shall burst! Let out my sides, let out my sides Mos. Contain Your flux of laughter, sir: you know this hope Is such a bait, it covers any hook. Volp. O, but thy working, and thy placing it! I cannot hold; good rascal, let me kiss thee: I never knew thee in so rare a humour. Mos. Alas, sir, I but do as I am taught ; Follow your grave instructions; give them words; Pour oil into their ears, and send them hence. Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishIs avarice to itself! Mos. Ay, with our help, sir. [ment Volp. So many cares, so many maladies, So many fears attending on old age, Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish Can be more frequent with them, their limbs faint, Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going, All dead before them; yea, their very teeth, Their instruments of eating, failing them: Yet this is reckon'd life! nay, here was one, Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer! Feels not his gout, nor palsy; feigns himself Younger by scores of years, flatters his age With confident belying it, hopes he may, With charms, like Æson, have his youth restored: And with these thoughts so battens, as if fate Would be as easily cheated on, as he, And all turns air? [Knocking within.] Who's that there, now? a third! Mos. Close, to your couch again; I hear his It is Corvino, our spruce merchant. [voice: Volp. [lies down as before.] Dead. Mos. Another bout, sir, with your eyes. [Anointing them.]-Who's there? THOMAS CAREW. [Born, 1589. Died, 1639.] WHEN Mr. Ellis pronounced that Carew certainly died in 1634, he had probably some reasons for setting aside the date of the poet's birth assigned by Lord Clarendon ; but as he has not given them, the authority of a contemporary must be allowed to stand. He was of the Carews of Gloucestershire, a family descended from the elder stock of that name in Devonshire, and a younger brother of Sir Matthew Carew, who was a zealous adherent of the fortunes of Charles I. He was educated at Oxford, but was neither matriculated nor took any degree. After returning from his travels, he was received with distinction at the court of Charles I. for his elegant manners and accomplishments, and was appointed gentleman of the privy chamber, and sewer in ordinary to his majesty. The rest of his days seem to have passed in affluence and ease, and he died just in time to save him from witnessing the gay and gallant court, to which he had contributed more than the ordinary literature of a courtier, dispersed by the storm of civil war that was already gathering *. The want of boldness and expansion in Carew's thoughts and subjects, excludes him from rivalship with great poetical names; nor is it difficult, even within the narrow pale of his works, to discover some faults of affectation, and of still more objectionable indelicacy. But among the poets who have walked in the same limited path, he is pre-eminently beautiful, and deservedly ranks among the earliest of those who gave a cultivated grace to our lyrical strains. His slowness in composition was evidently that sort of care in | the poet, which saves trouble to his reader. His poems have touches of elegance and refinement, which their trifling subjects could not have yielded without a delicate and deliberate exercise of the fancy; and he unites the point and polish of later times with many of the genial and warm tints of the elder muse. Like Waller, he is by no means free from eonceit; and one regrets to find him addressing the Surgeon bleeding Celia, in order to tell him that the blood which he draws proceeds not from the fair one's arm, but from the lover's heart. But of such frigid thoughts he is more sparing than Waller; and his conceptions, compared to that poet's, are like fruits of a richer flavour, that have been cultured with the same assiduity*. PERSUASIONS TO LOVE. THINK not, 'cause men flattering say, Starve not yourself, because you may The snake each year fresh skin resumes, But if your beauties once decay, You never know a second May. Oh, then be wise, and whilst your season [* He is mentioned as alive in 1638 in Lord Falkland's verses on Jonson's death; and as there is no poem of Carew's in the Jonsonus Virbius, it is not unlikely that he was dead before its publication.] Spend not in vain your life's short hour, SONG. MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED. GIVE me more love, or more disdain, The temperate affords me none; Give me a storm; if it be love, TO MY MISTRESS SITTING BY A RIVER'S SIDE, AN EDDY. MARK how yon eddy steals away [* "Few will hesitate to acknowledge that he has more fancy and more tenderness than Waller; but less choice, less judgment and knowledge where to stop, less of the equability which never offends, less attention to the unity and thread of his little pieces. I should hesi tate to give him, on the whole, the preference as a poet, taking collectively the attributes of that character."HALLAM, Lit. Hist, vol. iii. p. 507.] 1 Mark how she courts the banks, whilst they Be thou this eddy, and I'll make Of the quite forsaken stream: SONG. PERSUASIONS TO ENJOY. If the quick spirits in your eye Or, if that golden fleece must grow If those bright suns must know no shade, INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED. KNOW, Celia, since thou art so proud, 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown: Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties, lived unknown, Had not my verse exhaled thy name, And with it impt the wings of Fame. That killing power is none of thine, I gave it to thy voice and eyes:` Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine: Thou art my star, shinest in my skies; Then dart not from thy borrow'd sphere Lightning on him that fix'd thee there. Tempt me with such affrights no more, Lest what I made I uncreate : Let fools thy mystic forms adore, I'll know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrap truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils. DISDAIN RETURNED. He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, But a smooth and stedfast 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 search'd thy soul within, And find nought but pride and scorn; I have learn'd thy arts, and now Can disdain as much as thou. Some power, in my revenge, convey That love to her I cast away. GOOD COUNSEL TO A YOUNG MAID. WHEN you the sun-burnt pilgrim see, Fainting with thirst, haste to the springs; Mark how at first with bended knee He courts the crystal nymphs, and flings His body to the earth, where he Prostrate adores the flowing deity. But when his sweaty face is drench'd In her cool waves, when from her sweet Bosom his burning thirst is quench'd; Then mark how with disdainful feet He kicks her banks, and from the place That thus refresh'd him, moves with sullen pace. So shalt thou be despised, fair maid, When by the sated lover tasted; What first he did with tears invade, Shall afterwards with scorn be wasted; When all the virgin springs grow dry, When no streams shall be left but in thine eye. EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS. THE Lady Mary Villiers lies Under this stone: With weeping eyes May'st find thy darling in an urn. SONG. THE WILLING PRISONER TO HIS MISTRESS. LET fools great Cupid's yoke disdain, Loving their own wild freedom better; Whilst, proud of my triumphant chain, I sit and court my beauteous fetter. Her murdering glances, snaring hairs, And her bewitching smiles, so please me, As he brings ruin, that repairs The sweet afflictions that disease me. Hide not those panting balls of snow In a sweet smile of love unfolding. And let those eyes, whose motion wheels And wounds, themselves have made, discover. A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. SHEPHERD, NYMPH, CHORUS. Shep. THIS mossy bank they prest. Nym. That Till the day-breaking their embraces broke. Nym. Those streaks of doubtful light usher not [day, Shep. If thine eyes gild my paths, they may forbear Their useless shine. Nym. My tears will quite Extinguish their faint light. Shep. Those drops will make their beams more Cho. They kiss'd, and wept ; and from their lips Shep. The winged hours fly fast whilst we embrace; Shep. Hark! Nym. Ah me, stay! Shep. For ever. Nym. No, arise; We must be gone. Shep. My nest of spice. Nym. My soul. Shep. My paradise. [eyes Cho. Neither could say farewell, but through their Grief interrupted speech with tears supplies. FEMININE HONOUR. IN what esteem did the gods hold Fair innocence and the chaste bed, When scandal'd virtue might be bold, Bare-foot upon sharp culters, spread Why, when the hard-edged iron did turn Their chaste, pure limbs, should man alone Of partial honour! who may know Rebels from subjects that obey, When malice can on vestals throw Disgrace, and fame fix high repute On the loose shameless prostitute? Vain Honour! thou art but disguise, A cheating voice, a juggling art ; No judge of Virtue, whose pure eyes Court her own image in the heart, More pleased with her true figure there, Than her false echo in the ear. SONG. Ask me no more where Jove bestows, Ask me no more, whither do stray Ask me no more, whither doth haste Ask me no more, if east or west, UPON MR. W. MONTAGUE'S RETURN FROM LEAD the black bull to slaughter, with the boar To those mild spirits that cast a curbing yoke In honour of their darling's safe return, Sweetly-breathing vernal air, That with kind warmth dost repair On whose brow, with calm smiles dress'd, If he blast what's fair or good, If his rude breath threaten us; THE MISTAKE. WHEN on fair Celia I did spy But when I saw it was enthroned For mine was ne'er so blest. Yet if in highest heavens do shine Where, seated in so high a bliss, Though wounded it shall live: The place free life doth give. Or, if the place less sacred were, Bathe my kind heart in one kind tear, Slight balms may heal a slighter sore; Can ever hope for to restore A wounded heart like mine. SIR HENRY WOTTON. [Born, 1568. Died, 1639.] SIR HENRY WOTTON was born at Bocton-Mal- | James, and was appointed ambassador to the herbe in Kent. Foreseeing the fall of the Earl of Essex, to whom he was secretary, he left the kingdom, but returned upon the accession of court of Venice. Towards the close of his life he took deacon's orders, and was nominated provost of Eton. FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD. FAREWELL, ye gilded follies! pleasing troubles; And torture free-born minds; embroider'd trains Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth, Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. I would be great, but that the sun doth still I would be high, but see the proudest oak |