Ask me no more whither doe stray Ask me no more whither doth haste Ask me no more where those stars light, Ask me no more if East or West, [From Carew's Poems, third edition. 12mo. 1651.] INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED. THOMAS CAREW. Know Celia, (since thou art so proud,) 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown: Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties liv'd unknown, Had not my verse exhal'd thy name And with it impt the wings of fame. That killing power is none of thine, Thou art my star, shin'st 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, I'll know thee in thy mortal state. MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED. THOMAS CAREW. Give me more love, or more disdain; The temperate affords me none : Give me a storm; if it be love, Like Danae in a golden shower I swim in pleasure; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture hopes; and his possessed Of Heaven, that's but from hell releas'd: Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; Give me more love or more disdain. THE PROTESTATION. THOMAS CAREW. No more shall meads be deck'd with flowers, The fish shall in the ocean burn, Love shall his bow and shaft lay by, Love shall no more inhabit earth, THE PRIMROSE. THOMAS CAREW. Ask me why I send you here This primrose all bepearl'd with dew; What doubts and fears are in a lover. [This very pretty song of Carew's met the eye of Burns in an old collection-when he was gathering English songs for a proposed publication of Mr. George Thomson's. He writes:-" For Todlin Hame,' take the following old English song, which I dare say is but little known. I have altered it a little :- THE PRIMROSE. Dost ask me why I send thee here, I must whisper to thy ears The sweets of love are wash'd with tears, This lovely native of the dale Thou seest, how languid, pensive, pale. Thou seest this bending stalk so weak The doubts and fears that lovers feel." [Burns' alteration is now printed for the first time.] IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND. THOMAS CAREW. It is not beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair. Tell me not of your starry eyes, A bloomy pair of vermil cheeks, Give me instead of beauty's bust, |