Poems by Thomas Carew
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We read of kings and gods that kindly took
I was foretold, your rebell sex,
In Nature’s pieces still I see
Go thou gentle whispering wind,
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
If the quick spirits in your eye
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
Can we not force from widow'd poetry,
This little vault, this narrow room,
This little vault, this narrow room,
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
Mark how the bashful morn in vain
Fond man, that canst believe her blood
He that loves a rosy cheek,
And here the precious dust is laid;
The Lady Mary Villiers lies
How ill doth he deserve a lover’s name,
He that loves a rosy cheek,
I do not love thee for that fair
Know Celia, since thou art so proud,
Know, Celia, since thou art so proud,
In Celia's face a question did arise,
Give me more love or more disdain;
So grieves th' adventurous merchant, when he throws
Fear not, dear love, that I'll reveal
If when the sun at noon displays
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
How ill doth he deserve a lover's name,
Gaze not on thy beauty's pride,
I'll gaze no more on her bewitching face,
If the quick spirits in your eye
Ask me why I send you here
Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost
He that loves a rosy cheek,
Now you have freely given me leave to love,
'Tis true, dear Ben, thy just chastising hand
When thou, poor excommunicate