ON CELIA SINGING.

THOMAS CAREW, born about 1580, died 1639.

You that think love can convey,
No other way

But through the eyes, into the heart
His fatal dart;

Close up those casements, and but hear

This syren sing,

And on the wing

Of her sweet voice it shall appear
That love can enter at the ear.

Then unveil your eyes, behold

The curious mould

Where that voice dwells; and as we know
When the cocks crow,

We freely may

Gaze on the day;

So may you when the music's done,
Awake and see the rising sun.

HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK.

THOMAS CArew.

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain its fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,

Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined
Kindle never dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

There is another stanza to this song in some editions of the English poets, but so inferior in every way to these, and so unnecessary to the climax of the sentiment, as to suggest a doubt whether it has not been added by an inferior hand.

MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED.

THOMAS CAREW.

GIVE me more love, or more disdain ;
The torrid or the frozen zone,
Brings 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 Danae in a 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 cut from hell releas'd; Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; Give me more love or more disdain.

SHALL I LIKE A HERMIT DWELL?

Attributed to SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

SHALL I like a hermit dwell,
On a rock or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?

If she undervalue me,

What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel-gold1
If a stranger may be bold
Unrebuked, unafraid

To convert them to a braid;
And with little more ado
Work them into bracelets, too;

If the mine be grown so free
What care I how rich it be?

1 Angel-gold was of a finer kind than crown gold.

Where her hands as rich a prize
As her hairs or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good manners' sake;
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;

If she be not chaste to me

What care I how chaste she be?

No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire, by burning too;
But when she by change hath got
To her heart a second lot;

Then if others share with me,

Farewell her, whate'er she be!

The burden of this song probably suggested the far more beautiful song of Georg Wither's, which immediately follows.

SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR.

GEORGE WITHER, born 1588, died 1667.

SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May,

If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be?

Should my heart be grieved or pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deservings known,
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best,
If she be not such to me,

What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do,
That without them dare to woo;

And, unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be ?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair:
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve:
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go:

For, if she be not for me,

What care I for whom she be?

From "The Mistress of Philarete," published in 1622.

I LOVED A LASS, A FAIR ONE.

GEOEGE WITHER.

I LOV'D a lass, a fair one,

As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queen;
But fool as then I was,

I thought she lov'd me too,
But now, alas! she's left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Her hair like gold did glister,
Each eye was like a star,

She did surpass her sister

Which passed all others far

She would me honey call,

She'd, oh-she'd kiss me too,

But now, alas! she's left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

In summer time to Medley,1
My love and I would go-
The boatmen there stood ready
My love and me to row;
For cream there would we call,

;

For cakes, and for prunes too,
But now, alas! she's left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Many a merry meeting

My love and I have had;

She was my only sweeting,

She made my heart full glad;

The tears stood in her eyes,
Like to the morning dew,

But now, alas! she's left me,

Falero, lero, loo.

1 Medley House, between Godstow and Oxford. It has been supposed by Ritson, from the mention of this place of summer recreation for the Oxford students, that Wither wrote this beautiful song when at College in the year 1606; but it is not likely to have been the production of a youth of 18. It did not occur to Ritson that a man may write about his college haunts long after he has quitted them.