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Thou shalt confess the vain pursuit Of human glory yields no fruit But an untimely grave.
—  Thomas Carew
Give me more love or more disdain; The torrid or the frozen zone: Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none.
—  Thomas Carew
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.
—  Thomas Carew
Here lies a King that ruled, as he thought fit The universal monarchy of wit; Here lies two flamens, and both those the best: Apollo's first, at last the true God's priest.
—  Thomas Carew
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.
—  Thomas Carew
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.
—  Thomas Carew
Sweetly breathing, vernal air, That with kind warmth doth repair Winter's ruins; from whose breast All the gums and spice of the East Borrow their perfumes; whose eye Gilds the morn, and clears the sky.
—  Thomas Carew

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