The love of conquests now give o'er;

Disquiets wait on victories.

To your much-injur'd peace and name

Love's farewell as a tribute pay; Grow now reserv'd, and raise your fame

By your own choice, not your decay.

She that to age her charms resigns,

And then at last turns votary, Though virtue much the change inclines,

'Tis sullied by necessity.


Author of a collection of poems published under the title of

“ Hesperides," 8vo. 1848. The volume contains two little pieces, “ the Primrose," and “ the Inquiry," which are printed in Carew's poems. Phillips in his “ Theatrum Poetarum” thinks him“ not particularly influenced by

any nymph or goddess, except his maid Pru:” but allows him to have shown occasionally “ a pretty flowery and “ pastoral gale of fancy," &c. Wood tells us (Vol. II. p. 122) that he was a Londoner born, though of a Leicestershire family; elected fellow of All Souls College, Oxford, from St. John's, but took no degree: that, being patronized by the earl of Essex, he afterwards resided in Devonshire, much beloved, till, forced to withdraw, he retired to London, where he was still living, subsequent to the Restoration. For farther particulars, see Gent. Mag, for 1796, p. 461, 645.


Hear ye virgins, and I'll teach,
What the times of old did preach.
Rosamond was in a bower
Kept, as Danae in a tower :
But yet love, who subtle is,
Crept to that, and came to this.

Be ye lock'd up like to these,
Or the rich Hesperides ;
Or those babies in your eyes,
In their crystal nunneries ;
Notwithstanding, love will win,
Or else force a passage in;
And as coy be as you can,
Gifts will get you, or the man.


(From 7 stanzas.)

You are a tulip, seen to-day,
But, dearest, of so short a stay,
That where you grew scarce man can say.

You are a lovely July-flower,-
Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower
Will force you hence, and in an hour.

You are a sparkling rose i th' bud,
Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood
Can shew where you or grew, or stood.

You are a dainty violet,-
Yet wither'd, ere you can be set
Within the virgin's coronet.

You are


all flowers among, But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song.


AM Į despis'd because you say,
And I believe, that I am grey?
Know, lady, you have but your day,
And night will come, and men will swear
Time hath spilt snow upon your hair,

Then, when in your glass you seek,
And find tio rose-buds in


cheek; No, nor the bed to give you shew Where such a rare carnation grew, And such a smiling tulip too ;

O then too late in close your chamber keeping

It will be told

That you are old
By those true tears you're weeping.

THE MAD MAID's song,

[From 7 stanzas.]

Good-morrow to the day so fair;

Good-morning, sir, to you;
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,

Bedabbled with the dew.

Good-morning to this primrose too;

Good-morrow to each maid, That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my

love is laid.

I'll seek him there! I know, ere this,

The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go, or send a kiss

By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray, hurt him not; though he be dead

He knows well who do love him ; And who with green-turfs rear his head,

And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender-pray, take heed

With bands of cowslips bind him; And bring him home-but'tis decreed

That I shall never find him.

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