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I watch'd the dawn of every grace,
While yet ’t was safe to gaze;
The peace of future days.
But now despotic o'er the plains
And kneeling crowds adore;
And I must hope no more.
Thus to the rising God of day
And bless the spreading fire ;
They sicken and expire.
There lives a lass upon the green,
Could I her picture draw,
And keeps the swains in awe.
Her eyes are Cupid's darts and wings,
Her eyebrows are his bow,
To all the vale below.
If Pastorella's dawn of light
Can warm and wound us so,
every swain subdue.
He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Fuel to maintain his fires;
But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Kindle never-dying fires.
* Carew, though infected with the bad taste of his age, and in general overrun with artificial thoughts and conceits, has written some pieces of great sweetness and elegant simplicity, of which this is a very pleasing example.
Still to be neat, still to be drest,
Give me a look, give me a face
This is one of a very few productions of the once celebrated author, which, by their singular elegance and neata ness, form a striking contrast to the prevalent coarseness and quaintness of his tedious effusions.
Why so pale and wan, fond lover ?
Prythee, why so pale?
Looking ill prevail ?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prythee, why so mute?
Speaking nothing do't?
HENCE comes my love? O heart! disclose : 'Twas from cheeks that shame the rose;
* The third stanza of this sprightly song is omitted, on account of its inferiority and coarseness.