Besides his Celia, Carew has celebrated several other ladies of the Court, and particularly Lady Mary Villars; the Countess of Anglesea; Lady Carlisle, the theme of all the poets of her age, and her lovely daughter, Lady Anne Hay, on whom he wrote an elegy, which begins with some lines never surpassed in harmony and tenderness. I heard the virgin's sigh! I saw the sleek And polish'd courtier channel his fresh cheek With real tears; the new betrothed maid Smil'd not that day; the graver senate laid Their business by; of all the courtly throng Grief seal'd the heart, and silence bound the tongue! ....*....*....*....* We will not bathe thy corpse with a forc'd tear, Nor shall thy train borrow the blacks they wear; Such vulgar spice and gums embalm not thee, That art the theme of Truth, not Poetry. Here Carew has fallen into the vulgar error, that _poetry_ and _fiction_ are synonymous. Lady Anne Wentworth,[2] daughter of the first Earl of Cleveland, who, after making terrible havoc in the heart of the Lord Chief Justice Finch, married Lord Lovelace, is another of Carew's fair heroines. For her marriage he wrote the epithalamium, Break not the slumbers of the bride, &c. As Carew is not a _popular_ poet, nor often found in a lady's library, I add a few extracts of peculiar beauty. TO CELIA. Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties orient dee Those 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 Fix'd become, as in their sphere. Ask me no more, if east or west, The phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies. ....*....*....*....* Ladies, fly from Love's smooth tale, Oaths steep'd in tears do oft prevail; Grief is infectious, and the air, Inflam'd with sighs, will blast the fair: Then stop your ears when lovers cry, Lest yourself weep, when no soft eye Shall with a sorrowing tear repay That pity which you cast away. ....*....*....*....* And when thou breath'st, the winds are ready straight To filch it from thee; and do therefore wait Close at thy lips, and snatching it from thence, Bear it to heaven, where 'tis Jove's frankincense. Fair goddess, since thy feature makes thee one, Yet be not such for these respects alone; But as you are divine in outward view, So be within as fair, as good, as true.