Poems By Thomas Carevv Esquire. One of the gentlemen of the Privie-Chamber, and Sewer in Ordinary to His Majesty.

To my friend G. N. from Wrest.

I Breathe (sweet Ghib:) the temperate ayre of Wrest Where I no more with raging stormes opprest, Weare the cold nights out by the bankes of Tweed, On the bleake Mountains, where fierce tempests breed, And everlasting Winter dwells; where milde Favonius, and the Vetnall windes exilde, Did never spread their wings: but the wilde North Brings sterill Fearne, Thistles, and Brambles forth. Here steep'd in balmie dew, the pregnant Earth, Sends from her teeming wombe a flowrie birth, And cherisht with the warme Suns quickning heate, Her porous bosome doth rich odours sweate; Whose perfumes through the Ambient ayre diffuse Such native Aromatiques, as we use No forraigne Gums, nor essence fetcht from farre, Vo Volatile spirits, nor compounds that are Adulterate, but at Natures cheape expence With farre more genuine sweetes refresh the sense.

Such pure and uncompounded beauties, blesse This Mansion with an usefull comelinesse. Devoide of Art, for here the Architect Did not with curious skill a Pile erect Of carved Marble, Touch, or Porpherie, But built a house for hospitalitie; No sumptuous Chimney-peece of shining stone Invites the strangers eye to gaze upon, And coldly entertaines his sight, but cleare And cheerefull flames, cherish and warme him here: No Dorique, nor Corinthian Pillars grace With Imagery this structures naked face, The Lord and Lady of this place delight Rather to be in act, then seeme in sight; In stead of Statues to adorne their wall They throng with living men, their merry Hall, Where at large Tables fill'd with wholsome meates The servant, Tennant, and kind neighbour eates. Some of that ranke, spun of a finer thred▪ Are with the Women, Steward, and Chaplaine fed With daintier cates; Others of better note Whom wealth, parts, office, or the Heralds coats Have sever'd from the common, freely sic At the Lords Table, whose spread sides admit

A large accesse of friends to fill those seates Of his capacious circle, fill'd with meates Of choycest rellish, till his Oaken back Vnder the load of pil'd-up dishes crack Nor thinke, because our Piramids, and high Exalted Turrets threaten not the skie, That therefore Wrest of narrownesse complaines Or streightned Walls, for she more numerous traines Of Noble guests daily receives, and those Can with farre more conveniencie dispose Then prouder Piles, where the vaine builder spent More cost in outward gay Embellishment Then reall use: which was the sole designe Of our contriver, who made things not fine, But fit for service. Amalthea's Horne Of plentie is not in Effigie worne Without the gate, but she within the dore Empties her free and unexhausted store. Nor, croun'd with wheaten wreathes, doth Ceres stand In stone, with a crook'd circle in her hand: Nor, on a Marble Tunne, his face besmeat'd With grapes, is curl'd uncizard Bacchus rear'd. We offer not in Emblemes to the eyes, But to the taste those usefull Deities.

Wee presse the juycie God, and quasse his blood, And grinde the Yeallow Goddesse into food. Yet we decline not, all the worke of Art, But where more bount eous Nature beares a part And guides her Hand-maid, if the but dispence Fitmatter, she with care and diligence Employes her skill, for where the neighbour sourse Powers forth her waters she directs their course, And entertaines the slowing streames in deepe And spacious channells, where they slowly creepe In snakie windings, as the shelving ground Leades them in circles, till they twice surround This Island Mansion, which i'th' center plac'd, Is with a double Crystall heaven embrac'd, In which our watery constellations floate, Out Fishes, Swans, our Water-man and Boate, Envy'd by those above, which wish to slake Their starre-burnt limbes, in our refreshing lake, But they stick fast nayl'd to the barren Spheare, Whilst our encrease in fertile waters here Disport, and wander freely where they please Within the circuit of our narrow Seas.

With various Trees we fringe the waters brinke, Whose thirstie rootes the soaking moysture drinke.

And whose extended boughes in equall rankes Yeeld fruit, and shade, and beautie to the bankes. On this side young Vertumnus sits, and courts His ruddie cheek'd Pomona. Zephyre sports On th'other, with lov'd Flora, yeelding thete Sweetes for the smell, sweetes for the palate here. But did you taste the high & mighty drinke Which from that Fountaine slowes, you'ld cleerly think The God of Wine did his plumpe clusters bring, And crush the Falerne grape into our spring; Or else disguis'd in watery Robes did swim To Ceres bed, and make her big of Him, Bege•…•…ng so himselfe on Her: for know Our Vintage here in March doth nothing owe To theirs in Autumne, but our fire boyles here As lustie liquour as the Sun makes there.

Thus I enjoy my selfe, and taste the fruit Of this blest Peace, whilst toyl'd in the pursuit Of Bucks, and Stags, th'embleme of warre you strive To keepe the memory of our Armes alive.