Poem by Thomas Carew

A Divine Mistress

In Nature's pieces still I see
Some error that might mended be;
Something my wish could still remove,
Alter or add; but my fair love
Was fram'd by hands far more divine,
For she hath every beauteous line:
Yet I had been far happier,
Had Nature, that made me, made her.
Then likeness might (that love creates)
Have made her love what now she hates;
Yet I confess I cannot spare
From her just shape the smallest hair;
Nor need I beg from all the store
Of heaven for her one beauty more.
She hath too much divinity for me:
You gods, teach her some more humanity. 

1. Epitaph for Maria Wentworth
2. Celia Beeding, To The Surgeon
3. The Primrose
4. Murdering Beauty
5. Another

Print

1266 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version