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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,
Be ye lock'd up like to these,
A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS.
(From 7 stanzas.)
You are a tulip, seen to-day,
You are a lovely July-flower,-
You are a sparkling rose i th' bud,
You are a dainty violet,-
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,
Then, when in your glass you seek,
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
THE MAD MAID's song,
[From 7 stanzas.]
Good-morrow to the day so fair;
Good-morning, sir, to you;
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.