Persuasions to Enjoy

575

TO MY INCONSTANT MISTRESS

WHEN thou, poor Excommunicate

From all the joys of Love, shalt see
The full reward and glorious fate

Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
Then curse thine own Inconstancy.

A fairer hand than thine shall cure

That heart which thy false oaths did wound;
And to my soul a soul more pure

Than thine shall by Love's hand be bound,
And both with equal glory crowned.

Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain
To Love, as I did once to thee:

When all thy tears shall be as vain

As mine were then: for thou shalt be
Damned for thy false Apostasy.

Thomas Carew [1598?- 1639?]

PERSUASIONS TO ENJOY

If the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish and anon must die;
If every sweet and every grace
Must fly from that forsaken face:

Then, Celia, let us reap our joys
Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or, if that golden fleece must grow
For ever free from agèd snow;

If those bright suns must know no shade,

Nor your fresh beauties ever fade:

Then fear not, Celia, to bestow

What, still being gathered, still must grow.

Thus either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED

GIVE me more love, or more disdain:
The torrid, or the frozen zone
Bring equal ease unto my pain;

The temperate affords me none:
Either extreme, of love or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love,

Like Danaë in that golden shower,
I swim in pleasure; if it prove

Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture-hopes; and he's possessed
Of heaven, that's but from hell released.

Then crown my joys, or cure my pain:
Give me more love, or more disdain.

Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]

THE MESSAGE

YE little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shady valleys,
And see how Phillis sweetly walks
Within her garden-alleys;

Go, pretty birds, about her bower;
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;
Ah me! methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tell her through your chirping bills,
As you by me are bidden,

To her is only known my love,

Which from the world is hidden.

Go, pretty birds, and tell her so,

See that your notes strain not too low,

For still methinks I see her frown;

Ye pretty wantons, warble.

"How Can the Heart Forget Her" 577

Go tune your voices' harmony
And sing, I am her lover;
Strain loud and sweet, that

every note
With sweet content may move her:
And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice:
-Yet still methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

O fly! make haste! sec, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber!

Sing round about her rosy bed

That waking she may wonder:

Say to her, 'tis her lover true
That sendeth love to you, to you!
And when you hear her kind reply,
Return with pleasant warblings.

Thomas Heywood [ ? -1650?]

"HOW CAN THE HEART FORGET HER"

Ar her fair hands how have I grace entreated
With prayers oft repeated!

Yet still my love is thwarted:

Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted-
Say, shall she go?

O no, no, no, no, no!

She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.

How often have my sighs declared my anguish,
Wherein I daily languish!

Yet still she doth procure it:

Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it—

Say, shall she go?

O no, no, no, no, no!

She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.

But shall I still a true affection owe her,
Which prayers, sighs, tears do show her,

7

And shall she still disdain me?

Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me-
Say, shall she go?

O no, no, no, no, no!

She made me hers, and hers she will retain me.

But if the love that hath and still doth burn me
No love at length return me,

Out of my thoughts I'll set her:

Heart, let her go, O heart I pray thee, let her!
Say, shall she go?

O no, no, no, no, no!

Fixed in the heart, how can the heart forget her?

Francis Davison [Al. 1602]

TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA

YE blushing virgins happy are

In the chaste nunnery of her breasts-
For he'd profane so chaste a fair,

Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.

Transplanted thus how bright ye grow!
How rich a perfume do ye yield!
In some close garden cowslips so
Are sweeter than in the open field.

In those white cloisters live secure

From the rude blasts of wanton breath!-
Each hour more innocent and pure,

Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you room,

Your glorious sepulcher shall be.

There wants no marble for a tomb

Whose breast hath marble been to me.

William Habington [1605-1654]

TO FLAVIA

'Tis not your beauty can engage

My wary heart;

The sun, in all his pride and rage,

Has not that art;

When, Dearest, I But Think of Thee" 579

And yet he shines as bright as you,
If brightness could our souls subdue.

'Tis not the pretty things you say,
Nor those you write,

Which can make Thyrsis' heart your prey:

For that delight,

The graces of a well-taught mind,

In some of our own sex we find.

No, Flavia, 'tis your love I fear;
Love's surest darts,

Those which so seldom fail him, are
Headed with hearts:

Their very shadows make us yield;

Dissemble well, and win the field!

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

"LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE"

LOVE not me for comely grace,

For my pleasing eye or face;

Nor for any outward part,

No, nor for a constant heart:

For these may fail or turn to ill,

So thou and I shall sever.

Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why;

So hast thou the same reason still

To doat upon me ever.

Unknown

"WHEN, DEAREST, I BUT THINK OF THEE"

WHEN, dearest, I but think of thee,

Methinks all things that lovely be

Are present, and my soul delighted:

For beauties that from worth arise

Are like the grace of deities,

Still present with us, though unsighted.