No tears, Celia, now shall win
My resolv❜d heart to return;
I have search'd thy soul within,

And find nought but pride and scorn;
I have learn'd thy arts, and now
Can disdain as much as thou:

Some power, in my revenge, convey
That love to her I cast away.

ASK ME NO MORE.

Ask me no more,-where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauty's 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.

Ask me no more,—where those stars light
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.

THOMAS CAREW.

Ask me no more,-if east or west
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you, at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

77

GOOD COUNSEL TO A YOUNG MAID.

WHEN you the sun-burn'd pilgrim see,
Fainting with thirst, haste to the springs;
Mark how at first, with bended knee,
He courts the crystal nymph, and flings
His body to the earth, and he,
Prostrate adores the flowing deity.

But when his sweaty face is drench'd
In her cool waves, when from her sweet
Bosom his burning thirst is quench'd;

Then mark how, with disdainful feet,

He kicks her banks, and from the place
That thus refresh'd him, moves with sullen pace.

Thus shalt thou be despis'd, fair maid,

When by thy sated lover tasted;

What first he did with tears invade,

Shall afterwards in scorn be wasted;
When all thy virgin springs grow dry,
And no springs left, but in thine eye.

The three foregoing Pieces are by THOMAS CAREW, whose admirers were the first men of the age in which he lived. Lord Clarendon says, "Carew was a person of a pleasant and facetious

wit, whose poems, for the sharpness of the fancy, and elegance of the language in which that fancy was spread, were at least equal, if not superior, to any of that time." Born, 1580; died, 1639. His poems were published in 1772, by Davis.

YE happy swains, whose hearts are free
From love's imperial chain,
Take warning, and be taught by me
To avoid the enchanting pain;
Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks,
Fierce winds to blossoms prove,
To careless seamen, hidden rocks,
To human quiet, love.

Fly the fair sex, if bliss you prize,
The snake's beneath the flower;
Who ever gaz'd on beauteous eyes,
That tasted quiet more?
How faithless is the lover's joys!

How constant is their care!

The kind, with falsehood do destroy,

The cruel, with despair.

By SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE; this celebrated wit was born near London, 1634; author of three plays, and a volume of sprightly poetry. His accomplishments procured him the favour of James the Second's Queen, to whom he had dedicated his "Man of Mode." Report says that he came to an untimely end, by an accident which befel him at Ratisbon.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

79

TO CHLOE.

CHLOE! why wish you that your years
Would backward run, till they meet mine,
That perfect likeness, which endears
Things unto things, might us combine?

Our ages so in date agree,

That twins do differ more than we.

There are two births: the one, when light

First strikes the new awaken'd sense;

The other, when two souls unite,

And we must count our life from thence; When you lov'd me, and I lov'd you,

Then both of us were born a-new.

Love then to us did new souls give,

And in these souls did plant new powers;

Since when another life we live,

The breath we breathe, is his, not ours;

Love makes those young, whom age doth chill,
And whom he finds young, keeps young

still.

Love like that angel that shall call

Our bodies from the silent grave;

Unto one age doth raise us all,

None too much, none too little have. Nay, that the difference may be none, He makes two not alike, but one.

And now since you and I are such,

Tell me what's your's, and what is mine?
Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch,

Do like our souls in one combine:

So by this, I as well may be

To old for you, as you

for me.

From Poems and Songs, by WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT, born 1611, died 1643. His poetry, says Campbell, in his specimens of the British Poets, may be ranked as the violet, humble but sweet of smell. Ben Johnson says of him, "My son Cartwright writes all like a man. He was of Christ's College, Oxford. Became Proctor of the University, and Lecturer on metaphysics. He was cut off by fever, aged 32, and had the honour to be regarded by his sovereign and queen, who were in Oxford at the time of his death.

GO LOVELY ROSE.

Go lovely rose!

Tell her that wastes her time, and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.