PATRICK CAREY.

["Trivial Poems and Triolets." 1651.]

FAIR beauties! if I do confess
Myself inconstant in my drink,

You ought not to love me the less,
I say but that which most men think:
And (troth) there is less hurtful art
In a light tongue, than a false heart.

Some use to swear that you will find
Nothing but truth within their breasts;
Yet waver more than does the wind,
When in a tempest least it rests

Nought of my thoughts I'll say to you,
But what you'll find to be most true.

More than I promise I'll perform ;
They give you oaths, but keep them not;
You build i' th' air, when as you form

False hopes on vows long since forgot.
Leave, leave them then, and deal with me,
So you will ne'er deceivéd be.

Fairly beforehand I declare,

That when I'm weary, I shall leave;
Fore-warnéd thus, you'll be aware,
Whilst falser men would ye deceive:

Besides, in this I nothing do,

But what I'd swear you will do too.

When of your love I weary grow,

Before I change, I'll tell you on't;

Do you the same when you are so,
And give me time to think upon 't;

Elsewhere I soon shall place my heart,
Then, kindly we'll shake hands, and part.

THOMAS STANLEY.

1620(?) 1678,

[“Poems." 1651.]

THE DEPOSITION.

THOUGH, when I loved thee, thou wert fair,

Thou art no longer so;

Those glories all the pride they wear

Unto opinion owe.

Beauties, like stars, in borrowed lustre shine, And 't was my love that gave thee thine.

The flames that dwelt within thine eye
Do now with mine expire;

Thy brightest graces fade and die

At once with my desire.

Love's fires thus mutual influence return ;
Thine cease to shine when mine to burn.

Then, proud Celinda, hope no more
To be implored or wooed;

Since by thy scorn thou dost restore
The wealth my love bestowed:

And thy despised disdain too late shall find
That none are fair but who are kind!

THE TOMB.

When, cruel fair one, I am slain
By thy disdain,

And, as a trophy of thy scorn,

To some old tomb am borne,
Thy fetters must their power bequeath
To those of Death;

Nor can thy flame immortal burn,

Like monumental fires within an urn :

Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall prove There is more liberty in Death than Love.

And when forsaken lovers come

To see my tomb,

Take heed thou mix not with the crowd,

And (as a victor) proud,

To view the spoils thy beauty made,
Press near my shade,

Lest thy too cruel breath or name
Should fan my ashes back into a flame,
And thou, devoured by this revengeful fire,
His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire.

But if cold earth, or marble, must
Conceal my dust,

Whilst hid in some dark ruins, I,

Dumb and forgotten, lie,

The pride of all thy victory

Will sleep with me;

And they who should attest thy glory, Will, or forget, or not believe this story. Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest,

Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast.

THE EXEQUIES.

Draw near,

You lovers that complain

Of Fortune or Disdain,

And to my ashes lend a tear;

Melt the hard marble with your groans,

And soften the relentless stones,

Whose cold embraces the sad subject hide
Of all Love's cruelties, and Beauty's pride.

No verse,

No epicedium bring,

Nor peaceful requiem sing,
To charm the terrors of my hearse;
No profane slumbers must flow near
The sacred silence that dwells here.

Vast griefs are dumb; softly, O, softly mourn,
Lest you disturb the peace attends my urn.

Yet strew

Upon my dismal grave

Such offerings as you have,
Forsaken cypress, and sad yew;
For kinder flowers can take no birth,

Or growth, from such unhappy earth. Weep only o'er my dust, and say, Here lies To Love and Fate an equal sacrifice.