TO A LADY, THAT DESIRED I WOULD LOVE HER.|
NOW you have freely given me leave to love,
What will you do ?
Shall I your mirth or passion move
When I begin to woo ?
Will you torment, or scorn, or love me too ?
Each petty beauty can disdain, and I,
Spite of your hate,
Without your leave can see, and die.
Dispense a nobler fate !
'Tis easy to destroy : you may create.
Then give me leave to love, and love me too :
Not with design
To raise, as Love's curst rebels do,
When puling poets whine,
Fame to their beauty, from their blubber'd eyne.
Grief is a puddle, and reflects not clear
Your beauty's rays ;
Joys are pure streams ; your eyes appear
Sullen in sadder lays ;
In chearful numbers they shine bright with praise,
Which shall not mention, to express you fair,
Wounds, flames, and darts,
Storms in your brow, nets in your hair,
Suborning all your parts,
Or to betray, or torture captive hearts.
I'll make your eyes like morning suns appear,
As mild and fair ;
Your brow as crystal smooth and clear ;
And your dishevell'd hair
Shall flow like a calm region of the air.
Rich Nature's store, which is the poet's treasure,
I'll spend to dress
Your beauties, if your mine of pleasure
In equal thankfulness
You but unlock, so we each other bless.
Vincent, Arthur, ed. The Poems of Thomas Carew.
London: George Routledge & Sons, Ltd., nd. 113-114.
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