WILLIAM SMITH.

Born about 1571, died

SONNET.

Thy beauty subject of my song I make,
O fairest fair, on whom depends my life!
Refuse not then the task I undertake

To please thy rage, and to appease my strife;
But with one smile remunerate my toil;
- None other guerdon I of thee desire;

Give not my lowly muse, new-hatch'd the foil,
But warmth, that she may at the length aspire
Unto the temples of thy star-bright eyes,
Upon whose round orbs perfect beauty sits;
From whence such glorious crystal beams arise,
As best my Chloris' seemly face befits:

Which eyes, which beauty, which bright crystal beam,
Which face of thine, hath made my love extreme.

O do not wanton with those eyes,
Lest I be sick with seeing!

Nor cast them down; but let them rise,
Lest shame destroy their being.

O be not angry with those fires,

For then their threats will kill me.
Nor look too kind on my desires,
For then my hopes will spill me.

O do not steep them in thy tears,
For so will sorrow slay me:
Nor spread them, as distract with fears;
Mine own enough betray me!

THE SWEET NEGLECT.

Still to be neat, still to be drest;
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfuin'd;
Lady it is to be presum'd—

Though art's hid causes are not found

All is not sweet, all is not sound!

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;--
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free!
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all the adulterics of art;

That strike mine eyes but not my heart.

For love's sake, kiss me once again!
I long, and should not beg in vain:
Here's none to spy, or see;

Why do you doubt, or stay?

I'll taste as lightly as the Bee,

That doth but touch his flower, and flics away.

Once more, and (faith) I will be gone;
Can he that loves, ask less than one?
Nay you may err in this,

And all your bounty wrong;

This could be call'd but half a kiss.
What we're but once to do, we should do long.

I will but mend the last; and tell

Where, how it would have relish'd well;

Join lip to lip and try

Each to suck other's breath;

And, whilst our tongues perplexed lic,
Let who will think us dead, or wish our death 1

MADRIGAL.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth;
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth;

Do but mark her forehead, smoother
Than words that soothe her!

And from her arch'd brow such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,

As alone there triumphs to the life,

All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow

Before rude hands have touch'd it?
Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow,
Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver?

Or the swan's down, ever?

Or have smelt 'o the bud o' the briar?

Or the nard i' the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee,

Oh so white! oh! so soft! oh! so sweet is she!

TO CELIA.

Drink to me only with thine cyes,
And I will pledge with mine!
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And I'le not looke for wine.
The thirst that froin the soule doth risc,
Doth aske a drinke divine:

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

64

THOMAS CAREW.

I sent thee, late, a rosic wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered bee.

But thou thereon did'st only breath,
And sent'st it backe to mee :

Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,
Not of itselfe, but thee.

THOMAS CAREW.

Born about 1577, died 1664.

SONG.

Ask me no more-where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose?
For in your beauties' orient deep,
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more-whither do stray
The golden atoms of the Day;
For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more-whither doth haste
The Nightingale, when May is past;"
For in your sweet-dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.