The Sun is now i’ the east: each shade As he doth rise Is shorter made, That earth may lessen to our eyes. O be not careless then and play Until the Star of Peace Hide all his beams in dark recess! Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way, When all the shadows do increase. _288._ _Death the Leveller_ The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against Fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crookèd scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill: But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds! Upon Death’s purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds. Your heads must come To the cold tomb: Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in their dust. THOMAS CAREW 1595?-1639? _289._ _Song_ Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauty’s orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 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 whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more where those stars ’light That downwards fall in dead of night For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixèd become as in their sphere. Ask me no more if east or west The Phœnix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies. _290._ _Persuasions to Joy: a Song_ If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish and anon must die; If every sweet and every grace Must fly from that forsaken face; Then, Celia, let us reap our joys Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys. Or if that golden fleece must grow. For ever free from agèd snow; If those bright suns must know no shade, Nor your fresh beauties ever fade; Then fear not, Celia, to bestow What, still being gather’d, still must grow. Thus either Time his sickle brings In vain, or else in vain his wings. _291._ _To His Inconstant Mistress_ When thou, poor Excommunicate From all the joys of Love, shalt see The full reward and glorious fate Which my strong faith shall purchase me, Then curse thine own inconstancy!