Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/340

 THOMAS CAREW

That killing power is none of thine;

I gave it to thy voice and eyes; Thy sweets, thy graces, all arc mine,

Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies; Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fix'd thec there.

Tempt me with such affrights no more,

Lest what I made I uncreate; Let fools thy mystic form adore,

I know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales, Knew her themselves through all her veils.

��502 Epitaph

On the Lady Mary V tillers Lady Mary Villiers lies

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��Under this stone; with weeping eyes The parents that first gave her birth, And their sad friends, laid her in earth. If any of them, Reader, were Known unto thee, shed a tear; Or if thyself possess a gem As dear to thee, as this to them, Though a stranger to this place, Bewail in theirs thine own hard case* For thou perhaps at thy return May'st find thy Darling in an urn.

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