Mr. Headley, in his Biographical Sketches, p. 39, has very justly observed, that “ Carew has the ease, without the “pedantry of Waller, and perhaps less conceit. He re“ minds us of the best manner of lord Lyttelton. Waller

is too exclusively considered as the first man who brought “ versification to any thing like its present standard. “ Carew's pretensions to the same merit are seldom suffi“ ciently either considered or allowed.” Lord Clarendon, however, has remarked of his poems, that, “ for the sharp“ness of the fancy, and for the elegance of the language “ in which that fancy was spread, they were at least equal, “ if not superior, to any of that time. But his glory was “ that, after fifty years of his life spent with less severity “ and exactness than they ought to have been, he died with “ the greatest remorse for that licence, and with the greatest “ manifestation of Christianity, that his best friends could

“ desire." Carew is generally supposed to have died young in 1639, and

I have therefore placed his birth about 1600, though, from the preceding passage from Clarendon, it seems probable that his birth ought to be placed earlier, or his death later. The earliest edition of his works which I have seen, was printed in 1642, which, however, is called in the title the second edition.

Sweetty breathing vernal air,
That, with kind warmth, dost repair
Winter's ruins; from whose breast
All the gums and spice of th' east
Borrow their perfumes; whose eye
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky;
Whose disheveld tresses shed

the violet-bed :
On whose brow, with calm smiles drest,
The halcyon sits, and builds her nest ;
Beauty, youth, and endless spring,
Dwell upon thy rosy wing.

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws
Down whole forests when he blows,
With a pregnant flowery birth
Canst refresh the teeming earth :
If he nip the early bud,
If he blast what's fair or good,
If he scatter our choice flowers,
If he shake our halls or bowers,
If his rude breath threaten us,
Thou canst stroke great Æolus,
And from him the


obtain To bind him in an iron chain.


Think not, 'cause men flattering 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!
For that lovely face will fail :
Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail;
'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done,
Than summer's rain, or winter's sun;
Most fleeting, when it is most dear;
'Tis gone, while we but say 'tis here.
These curious locks, so aptly twin'd,
Whose every hair a soul doth bind,
Will change their auburn hue, and grow
White and cold as winter's snow.
That eye, which now is Cupid's nest,

and all the rest
Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose,
Nor lily shall be found, nor rose,
And what will then become of all
Those whom now you servants call ?
Like swallows, when your summer's done,
They'll fly, and seek some warrer sun.
Then wisely choose one to your friend,
Whose love may (when your beauties end)



Remain still firm. Be provident,
And think before the summer's spent
Of following winter: like the ant
In plenty hoard for time of scant.
Cull out amongst the multitude
Of lovers that seek to intrude
Into your favour, one that may
Love for an age, not for a day;
For, when the storms of time have mov'd
Waves on that cheek which was belov'd;
When a fair lady's face is pin'd,
And yellow spread where red once shin'd;
When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her,
Love may return, but lovers never!
And old folks say there are no pains
Like itch of love in aged veins.
Oh, love me then! and now begin it;
Let us not lose this present minute;'
For time and age will work that wrack,
Which time or age shall ne'er call back.
The snake each

fresh skin resumes,
And eagles change their aged plumes;
The faded rose each spring receives
A fresh red tincture on her leaves ;
But if your beauties once decay,
You never know a second May.


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