Thomas Carew (1595?–1639?)

THIS little vault, this narrow room,

Of Love and Beauty is the tomb;

The dawning beam, that ’gan to clear

Our clouded sky, lies darken’d here,

For ever set to us: by Death

Sent to enflame the World Beneath.

’Twas but a bud, yet did contain

More sweetness than shall spring again;

A budding Star, that might have grown

Into a Sun when it had blown.

This hopeful Beauty did create

New life in Love’s declining state;

But now his empire ends, and we

From fire and wounding darts are free:

His brand, his bow, let no man fear;

The flames, the arrows, all lie here.