Thomas Carew (1595 – 1640)
English poet.
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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.
Stand still, you floods, do not deface
That image which you bear:
So votaries, from every place,
To you shall altars rear.
He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires,—
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
Then fly betimes, for only they
Conquer Love that run away.
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, if cast or west,
The phenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauties, orient deep
These flow'rs, as in their causes, steep.
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