Treasure Island

Thomas Carew

(1594 - 1640 / London / England)

Quotations

  • ''Since to the awe of thy imperious wit
    Our troublesome language bends, made only fit
    With her tough thick-ribbed hoops to gird about
    Thy giant fancy, which had proved too stout
    For their soft melting phrases.''
    Thomas Carew (1589-1639), British poet. An Elegy upon the Death of the Dean of St. Paul's, Dr. John Donne (l. 48-52). . . Norton Anthology of Poetry, The. Alexander W. Allison and others, eds. (3d ed., 1983) W. W. Norton & Company.
    3 person liked.
    5 person did not like.
  • ''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 (1589-1639), British poet. An Elegy upon the Death of the Dean of St. Paul's, Dr. John Donne (l. 93-96). . . Norton Anthology of Poetry, The. Alexander W. Allison and others, eds. (3d ed., 1983) W. W. Norton & Company.
  • ''There shall the Queens of Love and Innocence,
    Beauty, and Nature banish all offense
    From our close ivy twines, there I'll behold
    Thy bared snow and thy unbraided gold.
    There my enfranchised hand on every side
    Shall o'er thy naked polished ivory slide.''
    Thomas Carew (1589-1639), British poet. A Rapture (l. 25-30). . . Poems of Thomas Carew. Arthur Vincent, ed. (1899; repr. 1972) Books for Libraries Press.
  • ''All things are lawful there that may delight
    Nature or unrestrained appetite.
    Like and enjoy, to will and act is one;
    We only sin when love's rites are not done.''
    Thomas Carew (1589-1639), British poet. A Rapture (l. 111-114). . . Poems of Thomas Carew. Arthur Vincent, ed. (1899; repr. 1972) Books for Libraries Press.
  • ''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.''
    Thomas Carew (1589-1639), British poet. Ask Me No More Where Jove Bestows (l. 1-8). . . Poems of Thomas Carew. Arthur Vincent, ed. (1899; repr. 1972) Books for Libraries Press.
  • ''But when with moving accents thou
    Shalt constant faith and service vow,
    Thy Celia shall receive those charms
    With open ears, and with unfolded arms.''
    Thomas Carew (1589-1639), British poet. Boldness in Love (l. 13-16). . . Poems of Thomas Carew. Arthur Vincent, ed. (1899; repr. 1972) Books for Libraries Press.
  • ''The Lady Mary Villiers lies
    Under this stone; with weeping eyes
    The parents that first gave her birth,
    And their sad friends, laid her in earth.''
    Thomas Carew (1589-1639), British poet. Epitaph on the Lady Mary Villiers (l. 1-4). . . Poems of Thomas Carew. Arthur Vincent, ed. (1899; repr. 1972) Books for Libraries Press.
  • ''For thou perhaps at thy return
    May'st find thy Darling in an urn.''
    Thomas Carew (1589-1639), British poet. Epitaph on the Lady Mary Villiers (l. 11-12). . . Poems of Thomas Carew. Arthur Vincent, ed. (1899; repr. 1972) Books for Libraries Press.
  • ''Know Celia, (since thou art so proud),
    'Twas I that gave thee thy renowne:
    Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd
    Of common beauties, liv'd unknowne,
    Had not my verse exhal'd thy name,
    And with it, ympt the wings of fame.''
    Thomas Carew (1589-1639), British poet. Ingrateful Beauty Threatened (l. 1-6). . . Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1918. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. (New ed., rev. and enl., 1939) Oxford University Press.
  • ''And here the precious dust is layd;
    Whose purely temper'd Clay was made
    So fine, that it the guest betray'd.

    Else the soule grew so fast within,
    It broke the outward shell of sinne,
    And so was hatch'd a Cherubin.''
    Thomas Carew (1589-1639), British poet. Maria Wentworth (l. 1-6). . . Poems of Thomas Carew. Arthur Vincent, ed. (1899; repr. 1972) Books for Libraries Press.

Read more quotations »

The Primrose

Ask me why I send you here
The firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you
This primrose all bepearled with dew:
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are washed with tears.
Ask me why this flower doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak

[Hata Bildir]