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

The Complement.

O My deerest I shall grieve thee When I sweare, yet sweete beleeve me, By thine eyes the tempting booke On which even crabbed old men looke I sweare to thee, (though none abhorre them) Yet I doe not love thee for them.

I doe not love thee for that faire, Rich fanne of thy most curious haire; Though the wires thereof be drawne Finer then the threeds of lawne, And are softer then the leaves On which the subtle spinner weaues

I doe not love thee for those flowers, Growing on thy cheeks (loves bowers) Though such cunning them hath spread None can paint them whit and red: Loves golden arrowes thence are shot, Yet for them I loue thee not

I doe not love thee for those soft, Red co•…•…rall lips I've kist so oft; Nor teeth of pearle, the double guard To speech, whence musick•…•… still is heard: Though from those lips a kisse being taken, Might tyrants melt and death awaken.

I doe not love thee (ô my fairest) For that richest, for that rarest Silver pillar which stands vnder Thy sound head, that globe of wonder; Though that neeke be whiter farre, Then towers of pollisht Ivory are.

I doe not love thee for those mountaine•…•… Hill'd with snow, whence milkey fountaines, (Suger'd sweets, as sirropt berries) Must one day run through pipes of cherries; ô how much those breasts doe move me, Yet for them I doe not love thee.

I doe not love thee for that belly, Sleeke as satten, soft as jelly, Though within that Christall round Heapes of treasure might be found,

So rich that for the best of them, A King might leave his Diadem.

I doenot love thee for those thighes, Whose Alablaster rocks doe •…•…ise So high and even that they stand Like Sea-markes to some happy land. Happy are those eyes have seene them, More happy they that saile betweene them.

I love thee not for thy moist palme, Though the dew there of be balme: Nor for thy pretty legge and foote, Although it be the precious roote, On which this goodly cedar growes, (Sweete) I love thee not for those.

Nor for thy wit though pure and quicke, Whose substance no arithmeticke Can number downe: nor for those charmes Mask't in thy embracing armes. Though in them one night to lie, Dearest I would gladly die.

I love not for those eyes, nor haire, Nor cheekes, nor lips, nor teeth so rare.

Nor for thy speech, thy necke, nor breast, Nor for thy belly, nor the rest: Nor for thy hand, nor foote so small, But wouldst thou know (deere sweet) for all.