To Tho. Carew.
1
Upon my conscience whensoe're thou dy'st
(Though in the black, the mourning time of Lent)
There will be seen, in Kings-street (where thou ly'st)
More triumphs, than in days of Parliament.
2
How glad, and gaudy then will Lovers be?
For ev'ry Lover that can Verses read,
Hath been so injur'd by thy Muse and thee,
Ten Thousand, Thousand times, he wish'd thee dead.
3
Not but thy Verses are as smooth and high,
As Glory, Love, or Wine, from wit can raise;
But now the Devil take such Destinie!
What should commend them, turnes to their dispraise.
4
Thy Wit's chief Vertue, is become its vice;
For ev'ry Beauty thou hast rais'd so high,
That now course-Faces carry such a price,
As must undoe a Lover that should buy.
5
Scarce any of the Sex, admits commerce;
It shames me much to urge this in a Friend;
But more that they should so mistake thy Verse,
Which meant to conquer, whom it did commend.
