Song

Aske me no more where Jove bestowes,

When June is past, the fading rose:

For in your beauties orient deepe,

These flowers as in their causes, sleepe.

 

Aske me no more whither doth stray,

The golden Atomes of the day :

For in pure love heaven did prepare

These powders to inrich your haire.

 

Aske me no more whither doth hast,

The Nightingale when May is past :

For in your sweet dividing throat,

She winters and keepes warme her note.

 

Aske me no more where those starres light,

That downewards fall in dead of night :

For in your eyes they sit, and there,

Fixed become as in their sphere.

 

Aske me no more if East or West,

The Phoenix builds her spicy nest :

For unto you at last she flies

And in your fragrant bosome dies.

 

Thomas Carew

(1594/5-1640)

Advice To An Old Man of Sixty Three About To Marry a Girle of Sixteen

Now fie upon him! what is Man,
Whose life at best is but a span?
When to an inch it dwindles down,
Ice in his bones, snow on his Crown,
That he within his crazy brain,
Kind thoughts of Love should entertain,
That he, when Harvest comes should plow
And when ’tis time to reap, go sowe,
Who in imagination only strong,
Tho’ twice a Child, can never twice grow young

II.

Nature did those design for Fools,
That sue for work, yet have no tools.
What fellow feeling can there be
In such a strange disparity?
Old age mistakes the youthful breast,
Love dwels not there, but interest:
Alas Good Man! take thy repose,
Get ribband for thy thumbs, and toes,
Provide thee flannel, and a sheet of lead,
Think on thy Coffin, not thy bridal bed.

Thomas Flatman

(1637 – 1688)