"Thomas Carew: The Cavalier World,"

Critic: Louis L. Martz
Source: The Wit of Love, University of Notre Dame Press, 1969, pp. 60-110.
Criticism about: Thomas Carew (1595?-1640)

[(essay date 1969) In the following essay, Martz surveys Carew's poetry, noting its "Cavalier elegance, its Mannerist styling." Martz continues by observing Carew's wit, influences, critical capacity, and relationship to his age.]

In the cold spring of 1639, Thomas Carew, the favorite poet of the Court of Charles I, joined his King's army in an ill-conceived and ill-prepared expedition against the Scots. It was the same expedition for which Carew's friend and fellow poet, Sir John Suckling, had beggared himself in order to provide a beautifully clothed and plumed troop of cavalrymen--but whether they could fight was another matter. The King's hope was to quell the rebellious Scots, who had refused to abide by the rules of the Church of England; but he found the Scottish army much too strong for his own forces, stronger in motivation, bound together by religious zeal, and therefore stronger in military capacity. Charles did not dare to invade Scotland, and indeed hardly a shot was fired. Instead Charles made a humiliating, temporary peace, and planned to bide his time until, as he hoped, his power would grow stronger. Instead he grew steadily weaker. The Scottish expedition was the beginning of the end of Charles I's regime, an open revelation of the weaknesses that beset his state both in England and in Scotland; thus began a swift decay of royal power that reached its end when, in 1649, the Parliamentary army beheaded the King and abolished his monarchy.

Thomas Carew did not live to see the death of this "brave Prince of Cavaliers," as Robert Herrick called him, for Carew died in March, 1640--a symbolic date, for that was the very spring when Charles was forced to reconvene Parliament after his eleven years of personal rule. Thus began in November, 1640, the Long Parliament which utterly destroyed the King's power.

In the year 1640, shortly before Thomas Carew's death, it seems, he composed a poem in which memories of the Scottish campaign form a dark opening that fades away before an overwhelming appreciation of a way of life that represents the best of the Cavalier ideal: "To my friend G. N. from Wrest"--a country estate in Bedfordshire.

I Breathe (sweet Ghib:) the temperate ayre of Wrest
Where I no more with raging stormes opprest,
Weare the cold nights out by the bankes of Tweed,
On the bleake Mountains, where fierce tempests breed,
And everlasting Winter dwells; where milde
Favonius, and the Vernall windes exilde,
Did never spread their wings: but the wilde North
Brings sterill Fearne, Thistles, and Brambles forth.
Here steep'd in balmie dew, the pregnant Earth
Sends from her teeming wombe a flowrie birth,
And cherisht with the warme Suns quickning heate,
Her porous bosome doth rich odours sweate;1
We should note how, unlike Donne, Carew has a warm appreciation of the natural vigor of the earth. He goes on to admire the simple mansion, not erected "with curious skill" or with "carved Marble, Touch, or Porpherie." This is a house built for hospitality, without Doric or Corinthian pillars; it is designed for service, not for show. In the center of the poem he draws an active picture of the Lord and Lady at the head of "their merry Hall" filled with people of all ranks, servants, tenants, women, steward, chaplain, all eating at various tables in appropriate but flexible hierarchy. Meanwhile "others of better note"

                                                        freely sit
At the Lords Table, whose spread sides admit
A large accesse of friends to fill those seates
Of his capacious circle, fill'd with meates
Of choycest rellish, till his Oaken back
Under the load of pil'd-up dishes crack.

Although he praises the house for not being showy with statuary and extravagant artifice, the whole estate nevertheless reveals itself to be a work of art on the outside where nature and art have combined to direct the waters flowing from the local spring. Art, says Carew,

               entertaines the flowing streames in deepe
And spacious channels, where they slowly creepe
In snakie windings, as the shelving ground
Leades them in circles, till they twice surround
This Island Mansion, which i' th' center plac'd,
Is with a double Crystall heaven embrac'd ...
The whole view of the estate, then, is one in which simple dignity and generous hospitality combine with art to create an atmosphere of natural fertility and bounty. This theme reaches a climax in the finale as Carew sees the landscape and the fountain of waters mingled with pastoral and mythological figures out of Ovid's Metamorphoses and Vergil's Georgics:

With various Trees we fringe the waters brinke,
Whose thirstie rootes the soaking moysture drinke,
And whose extended boughes in equall rankes
Yeeld fruit, and shade, and beautie to the bankes.
On this side young Vertumnus sits, and courts
His ruddie-cheek'd Pomona, Zephyre sports
On th'other, with lov'd Flora, yeelding there
Sweetes for the smell, sweetes for the palate here.
But did you taste the high & mighty drinke
Which from that Fountaine flowes, you'ld cleerly think
The God of Wine did his plumpe clusters bring,
And crush the Falerne grape into our spring;


                    Thus I enjoy my selfe, and taste the fruit
Of this blest Peace, whilst toyl'd in the pursuit
Of Bucks, and Stags, th'embleme of warre, you strive
To keepe the memory of our Armes alive.

Thus the poem is framed by memories of the war, as though the threat of destruction had led Carew to appreciate the values of this ancient, traditional way of noble country life--a way of life celebrated long before by Carew's poetical master and father, Ben Jonson, in his similar poem "Penshurst," and by Jonson's own masters, Vergil, Horace, and Martial.

And indeed had such a way of life really been honored and followed by King Charles and his Court, the monarchy would never have come to its disaster. But by the year 1640 Charles and his Court had lost touch with the common people, unlike the Lord and Lady in their crowded hall at Wrest. Charles and his Court lived more and more a life apart, charmed by art and music, led by a King of impeccable artistic taste, whose collection of works of art, gathered in his palaces, represented one of the greatest art collections in all of Europe. Inigo Jones, that architect of rare ability, was in charge of all the King's buildings; Jones's new banqueting house at Whitehall, built in the latter years of King James's reign, had its ceiling painted by Rubens during Charles's reign; and Van Dyck came from Antwerp to live as the resident painter of King Charles and his Court. But by the year 1640 this era of courtly elegance and art was near its end.

That end may be seen as symbolized in two more events of this climacteric year: by the publication, in May or June, 1640, a few months after Thomas Carew's death, of his volume of collected poems, containing a world of Cavalier ideals; and secondly, by the presentation, in January, 1640, of the last of the great Court masques, Salmacida Spolia, composed jointly by Inigo Jones and by Carew's good friend and fellow poet, Sir William Davenant. The masque was based upon a curious allegorical interpretation of the myth of Salmacis, which is here interpreted as representing "Salmacian spoils," that is to say, rewards gained by peace and not by destructive war. It is the climax and epitome of the great series of Court masques that had flourished during the reign of James I on a relatively simpler scale, and then gradually rose to a scale of greater and greater extravagance after the reign of Charles I began in 1625. The masques of the Caroline era were glorious, expensive spectacles that called upon all the Court's immense artistic resources, for scene designing, for costume, for music, for dancing, and for poetry. All these resources were brought together for the last time in Salmacida Spolia, to give a moral allegory of the times, as the published version of the entertainment describes it:2

The Subject of the Masque

Discord, a malicious Fury, appears in a storm and by the invocation of malignant spirits, proper to her evil use, having already put most of the world into disorder [a reference to the Thirty Years' War then raging on the Continent], endeavours to disturb these parts, envying the blessings and tranquillity we have long enjoyed.

These incantations are expressed by those spirits in an Antimasque; who on a sudden are surprised and stopped in their motion by a secret power, whose wisdom they tremble at; and depart as foreknowing that wisdom will change all their malicious hope of these disorders into a sudden calm, which after their departure is prepared by a dispersed harmony of music.

This secret wisdom, in the person of the King attended by his Nobles and under the name of Philogenes or Lover of his People, hath his appearance prepared by a Chorus, representing the beloved people, and is instantly discovered environed with those Nobles in the Throne of Honour.

Then the Queen personating the chief heroine, with her martial ladies, is sent down from Heaven by Pallas as a reward of his prudence for reducing the threatening storm into the following calm.

Thus, after a series of fantastic scenes representing various aspects of discord and disorder, the King makes his appearance in great magnificence:

Then the further part of the scene disappeared, and the King's Majesty and the rest of the masquers were discovered sitting in the Throne of Honour, his Majesty highest in a seat of gold and the rest of the Lords about him. This throne was adorned with palm trees, between which stood statues of the ancient heroes. In the under parts on each side lay captives bound, in several postures, lying on trophies of armours, shields, and antique weapons, all his throne being feigned of goldsmith's work. The habit of his Majesty and the masquers was of watchet, richly embroidered with silver; long stockings set up of white; their caps silver with scrolls of gold and plumes of white feathers.

Then, after a song in praise of the King's virtues, particularly his patience and mercy in view of "those storms the people's giddy fury raise," the Queen descends in an even more magnificent scene.

Whilst the Chorus sung this song, there came softly from the upper part of the heavens a huge cloud of various colours, but pleasant to the sight; which, descending to the midst of the scene, opened, and within it was a transparent brightness of thin exhalations, such as the Gods are feigned to descend in; in the most eminent place of which her Majesty sat, representing the chief heroine, environed with her martial ladies; and from over her head were darted lightsome rays that illuminated her seat; and all the ladies about her participated more or less of that light, as they sat near or further off. This brightness with many streaks of thin vapours about it, such as are seen in a fair evening sky, softly descended; and as it came near to the earth the seat of Honour by little and little vanished, as if it gave way to these heavenly graces. The Queen's Majesty and her ladies were in Amazonian habits of carnation, embroidered with silver, with plumed helms, baldrics with antique swords hanging by their sides--all as rich as might be; but the strangeness of the habits was most admired.

Thus with song and dance and extravagant splendor the King and the Queen and the Court persuaded themselves that peace was still at hand and that the Court would prevail.

One assumes that Thomas Carew must have been present at this gorgeous spectacle, for he loved these masques and had himself composed the libretto for a very expensive and elaborate show entitled Coelum Britannicum, presented at Court in 1634. Of this splendid show, Sir Henry Herbert reports: "It was the noblest masque of my time to this day, the best poetrye, best scenes, and the best habitts. The kinge and queene were very well pleasd with my service, and the Q. was pleasd to tell mee before the king, 'Pour les habits, elle n'avoit jamais rien vue de si brave.'"3 The praise was well deserved, for Carew's book for the masque is one of the most thoroughly written that we have for any masque of the day. Indeed the proportion of poetry to scenery appears to be larger than that found in any other masque of the time except for Milton's Ludlow masque. It consists of an extravagant hymn of praise for the virtues of the royal pair whose destiny it is to rout all the vices and disorders of the day and to bring into the three kingdoms of England, Scotland, and Ireland a perfect peace derived from perfect morality. Thus after a long series of anti-masques have been performed, representing the several disorders of existence, the Genius of the three kingdoms appears and foresees the future:

          Raise from these rockie cliffs, your heads,
          Brave Sonnes, and see where Glory spreads
          Her glittering wings, where Majesty
          Crown'd with sweet smiles, shoots from her eye
          Diffusive joy, where Good and Faire,
          United sit in Honours chayre.
Call forth your aged Priests, and chrystall streames,
To warme their hearts, and waves in these bright beames.4

Then after a series of such songs of praise, the noblemen appear, gorgeously arrayed, to begin the defeat of evil:

At this the under-part of the Rocke opens, and out of a Cave are seene to come the Masquers, richly attired like ancient Heroes, the Colours yellow, embroydered with silver, their antique Helmes curiously wrought, and great plumes on the top; before them a troope of young Lords and Noblemens sonnes bearing Torches of Virgin-wax, these were apparelled after the old British fashion in white Coats, embroydered with silver, girt, and full gathered, cut square coller'd, and round caps on their heads, with a white feather wreathen about them; first these dance with their lights in their hands: After which, the Masquers descend into the roome, and dance their entry.5

And then after several harmonious songs, the masque concludes by the appearance of seven magnificent allegorical figures: Religion, Truth, Wisdom, Concord, Government, Reputation, and lastly, Eternity, all joining in praise of the glorious virtues of Britain's King and Queen.

The fatal separation of this gorgeous world of art from the world of political actuality is clearly evidenced in a superb poem that Carew had written, probably in January of 1633, to his friend and fellow poet of the Cavaliers, Aurelian Townshend. Townshend had written a poem to Carew, urging him to write a poetical tribute in honor of Gustavus Adolphus, who had been killed at the battle of L�tzen, November 6, 1632. Thus Carew writes "In answer of an Elegiacall Letter upon the death of the King of Sweden from Aurelian Townsend, inviting me to write on that subject":6

Why dost thou sound, my deare Aurelian,
In so shrill accents, from thy Barbican,
A loude allarum to my drowsie eyes,
Bidding them wake in teares and Elegies
For mightie Swedens fall? Alas! how may
My Lyrique feet, that of the smooth soft way
Of Love, and Beautie, onely know the tread,
In dancing paces celebrate the dead
Victorious King, or his Majesticke Hearse
Prophane with th'humble touch of their low verse?
Virgil, nor Lucan, no, nor Tasso more
Then both, not Donne, worth all that went before,

(Notice his extraordinary admiration for the poetry of Donne.)

With the united labour of their wit
Could a just Poem to this subject fit,
His actions were too mighty to be rais'd
Higher by Verse, let him in prose be prays'd,
In modest faithfull story, which his deedes
Shall turne to Poems:

It sounds like an honest tribute to a great military leader, and yet as the poem continues a certain ironic tone appears to arise in the following lines:

And (since 'twas but his Church-yard) let him have
For his owne ashes now no narrower Grave
Then the whole German Continents vast wombe,
Whilst all her Cities doe but make his Tombe.

That is to say, Gustavus has made all of Germany a graveyard; therefore let him lie there. If we doubt the irony here the rest of the passage will bear it out:

Let us to supreame providence commit
The fate of Monarchs, which first thought it fit
To rend the Empire from the Austrian graspe,
And next from Swedens, even when he did claspe
Within his dying armes the Soveraigntie
Of all those Provinces, that men might see
The Divine wisedome would not leave that Land
Subject to any one Kings sole command.

It is clear that Carew is finding no great virtues in military conquest, and quickly he turns his mind to things upon which he places a much higher and indeed a supreme value:

But let us that in myrtle bowers sit
Under secure shades, use the benefit
Of peace and plenty, which the blessed hand
Of our good King gives this obdurate Land ...
By the word "obdurate" Carew recognizes that the King is having some difficulty with his subjects, but the passage breathes not the slightest doubt that the King will prevail:

Let us of Revels sing, and let thy breath
(Which fill'd Fames trumpet with Gustavus death,
Blowing his name to heaven) gently inspire
Thy past'rall pipe, till all our swaines admire
Thy song and subject, whilst they both comprise
The beauties of the SHEPHERDS PARADISE:

Carew is referring here to a pastoral comedy written by his friend Walter Montagu, played (with splendid scenery and costumes) by Queen Henrietta Maria and her Ladies on January 9, 1633, and apparently repeated on February 2, 1633.7 But the production that Carew now proceeds to describe in his poem is not The Shepheards Paradise as we know it from the printed text of 1659; instead, as Dunlap has pointed out,8 Carew's description suggests the masque Tempe Restord, which Aurelian Townshend and Inigo Jones had presented in February, 1632. Carew urges his friend to continue writing works in the pastoral genre, "For who like thee," Carew asks,

In sweetly-flowing numbers may advance
The glorious night? When, not to act foule rapes,
Like birds, or beasts, but in their Angel-shapes
A troope of Deities came downe to guide
Our steerelesse barkes in passions swelling tide
By vertues Carde, and brought us from above
A patterne of their owne celestiall love.

With that echo of the concluding lines of Donne's "Canonization," Carew seems to be describing the elaborate descent of "Divine Beauty" and the "Stars," in Tempe Restord, as the Queen and her Ladies descended in one of Inigo Jones's miraculous machines and brought home to earth the meaning of true virtue as opposed to Circean corruption.9 And this resemblance is borne out by Carew's reference to "the divine Venus" and "her heavenly Cupid" in the following lines, for in Tempe Restord the appearance of the Queen and her Ladies is praised for creating an "Ayre" "Where faire and good, inseparably conioynd, / Create a Cupid, that is never blind."10 Thus Carew continues:

Nor lay it in darke sullen precepts drown'd
But with rich fancie, and cleare Action crown'd
Through a misterious fable (that was drawne
Like a transparant veyle of purest Lawne
Before their dazelling beauties) the divine
Venus, did with her heavenly Cupid shine.
The stories curious web, the Masculine stile,
The subtile sence, did Time and sleepe beguile,
Pinnion'd and charm'd they stood to gaze upon
Th'Angellike formes, gestures, and motion,
To heare those ravishing sounds that did dispence
Knowledge and pleasure, to the soule, and sense.

So far the parallel may seem to fit; but the conclusion of Carew's account describes two events for which there is no real correspondence in Tempe Restord. At the close of this masque Cupid simply flies up into the air,11 but Carew describes a much more elaborate action that suggests the Platonizing theme of Montagu's play:12

It fill'd us with amazement to behold
Love made all spirit, his corporeall mold
Dissected into Atomes melt away
To empty ayre, and from the grosse allay
Of mixtures, and compounding Accidents
Refin'd to immateriall Elements.

And finally, Carew makes the Queen's own singing the climax of his account, whereas in Tempe Restord the Queen does not sing:

But when the Queene of Beautie did inspire
The ayre with perfumes, and our hearts with fire,
Breathing from her celestiall Organ sweet
Harmonious notes, our soules fell at her feet,
And did with humble reverend dutie, more
Her rare perfections, then high state adore.

In the fifth Act of The Shepheards Paradise, however, a song of twenty lines is sung by the Queen in her role as Bellesa, chosen for her beauty as "Queen" of this pastoral retreat. Immediately after this she falls asleep, being alone, and Moramente enters, "sees her here lie sleeping and stands wondering," with the following speech:

Was it the rapture my soule was allwayes in, when she contemplates the divine Bellesa, that did present her voyce unto me here in heaven? Sure it was: her soul, uselesse now unto her body, is gon to visit heaven, and did salute the Angels with a song.13

These words of Moramente seem to "comprise" the subject for a song that appears in Townshend's collected works, with the title "On his Hearing her Majesty sing":

I have beene in Heav'n, I thinke,
For I heard an Angell sing,
Notes my thirsty ears did drinke.
Never any earthly thing
Sung so true, so sweet, so cleere;
I was then in Heav'n, not heere.
But the blessed feele no change,
So I may mistake the place,
But mine eyes would think it strange,
Should that be no Angels face;
Pow'rs above, it seems, designe
Me still Mortall, her Divine.
Till I tread the Milky way,
And I lose my sences quite,
All I wish is that I may
Hear that voice, and see that sight,
Then in types and outward show
I shall have a Heav'n below.14

It seems possible that this song may have formed a part of some adaptation of The Shepheards Paradise. And there is evidence that such an adaptation was made. A manuscript in the Folger Library represents an acting version of The Shepheards Paradise, with a prologue and certain songs between the acts which do not appear in the printed text of the play.15 This prologue makes it plain that some kind of masque is being presented in coordination with Montagu's play, certainly at the beginning, and possibly between the acts as well. The prologue presents Apollo and Diana in conversation; Apollo tells Diana that the Gods have agreed to appear on this occasion in the form of stars:

Soe now by this they all consented are,
Each one to put himselfe into a starre:
And thus in Gallantry each brings a light,
And waites with it a servant to this night,
They'le give the light & leave you to preside
In vertue, but as you are Deifide;

Perhaps the Gods then, later in the evening, descended from their Heaven and appeared in the manner described in Carew's lines above:

                              When, not to act foule rapes,
Like birds, or beasts, but in their Angel-shapes
A troope of Deities came downe to guide
Our steerelesse barkes in passions swelling tide
By vertues Carde ...

Certainly these lines accord much better with the Gods and stars of the prologue than they do with the descent of the Queen and her Ladies as stars in Tempe Restord. Has Townshend perhaps used some of the themes, along with the costumes, settings, and machinery, from his masque of the previous year, in order to enhance the beauties of The Shepheards Paradise?16 It seems likely, all considered, and such a conclusion would resolve the puzzle of Carew's account, which seems to describe a production related to The Shepheards Paradise, and yet devised in some manner by Townshend as well. In any case, such are the "pastimes" that Carew asks his friend to celebrate, as he ends the poem to Townshend with these most significant and revealing lines:

These harmelesse pastimes let my Townsend sing
To rurall tunes; not that thy Muse wants wing
To soare a loftier pitch, for she hath made
A noble flight, and plac'd th'Heroique shade
Above the reach of our faint flagging ryme;
But these are subjects proper to our clyme.
Tourneyes, Masques, Theaters, better become
Our Halcyon dayes; what though the German Drum
Bellow for freedome and revenge, the noyse
Concernes not us, nor should divert our joyes;
Nor ought the thunder of their Carabins
Drowne the sweet Ayres of our tun'd Violins;
Beleeve me friend, if their prevailing powers
Gaine them a calme securitie like ours,
They'le hang their Armes up on the Olive bough,
And dance, and revell then, as we doe now.

The whole situation of the Cavalier world, as glimpsed in this poem, and indeed the full impact of Carew's poetry, may be seen as symbolized in a great Mannerist painting by Bronzino, of which I was reminded by reading The Nice and the Good by Iris Murdoch, who has given this painting a symbolic place in her book. It is Bronzino's allegory known as "Venus, Cupid, Folly, and Time," where the graceful, harmonious, beautifully posed figure of Venus forms the center of the picture, while her grace is threatened from all sides by corrupting forces. Her son, Cupid, kneels beside her on the left in a distorted posture, embracing her indecently. Old Father Time holds over the head of Venus a threatening muscular arm. On the right side dances the figure of Folly or Pleasure, a young boy with a glint of madness in his eyes. In the background, darkened in shadows, lurk three sinister figures: one in the upper left corner may represent the figure of Truth, who seems to be turning her face away in horror from the scene; down lower on the left one sees clearly the tormented face of a figure that must be Jealousy; and in the background on the right side lurks a strange composite monster who must be the figure of Deceit, for the bland, pretty face does not square with the animal lower parts that we can see in the corner of the painting; moreover, as critics point out, her left and right hands are misplaced.17 Can the Queen of Love and Beauty survive these threats?

Thomas Carew is not wholly unaware of these dangers, for his poems deal incessantly with time, infidelity, and death. Many of his finest poems are funeral tributes or poems written to the King or to noble ladies when they are suffering illness. Here, for example, is a poem where the images of red and white common to love-poetry are turned gracefully to deal with the paleness of a young lady suffering from some anemic disease:

Stay coward blood, and doe not yield
To thy pale sister, beauties field,
Who there displaying round her white
Ensignes, hath usurp'd thy right;
Invading thy peculiar throne,
The lip, where thou shouldst rule alone;
And on the cheeke, where natures care
Allotted each an equall share,
Her spreading Lilly only growes,
Whose milky deluge drownes thy Rose.

            Quit not the field faint blood, nor rush
In the short salley of a blush,
Upon thy sister foe, but strive
To keepe an endlesse warre alive;
Though peace doe petty States maintaine,
Here warre alone makes beauty raigne.

But sometimes Death will win, as Carew shows in a poem on the death of a young girl, Lady Mary Villers, where all the symbols of Love and Beauty are delicately brought together in balanced, measured form to pay a tribute to the death of youth:

This little Vault, this narrow roome,
Of Love, and Beautie is the tombe;
The dawning beame that 'gan to cleare
Our clouded skie, lyes darkned here,
For ever set to us, by death
Sent to enflame the world beneath;
'Twas but a bud, yet did containe
More sweetnesse then shall spring againe,
A budding starre that might have growne
Into a Sun, when it had blowne.
This hopefull beautie, did create
New life in Loves declining state;
But now his Empire ends, and we
From fire, and wounding darts are free:
His brand, his bow, let no man feare,
The flames, the arrowes, all lye here.

It seems appropriate to call this poem a work of Mannerist art, if we do not use the term Mannerist in a derogatory sense. I will use it as many art historians do, when they seek to describe certain aspects of late Renaissance culture, during the last seventy years or so of the sixteenth century, the period after the death of the two great masters, Raphael and Leonardo. But we must define closely the term Mannerist, as John Shearman has tried to do in his recent book on this subject.18 As he and many others have pointed out, "Mannerism" is derived from the Italian word maniera, meaning simply, style. A Mannerist painter is a painter with high style, with so strong an emphasis on style that it stands out as the figure of Venus stands out in Bronzino's painting among the threatening gestures of the other figures in the scene. A Mannerist painter has learned all that can be learned from the earlier great masters and he now proceeds to turn their art and craft toward other ends, creating a different kind of art in which the high style stands at the front, taking the eye with its elegance and its sophistication. Such art can, of course, be mere imitation in the bad sense of that word, but it may also be creative imitation--that is, imitation of the manner of the great masters which moves into a different era of sensibility and creates a new world of art. Now transferring cautiously this term into the poetic realm, perhaps we might say that Carew is a Mannerist because he imitates so skillfully the works of the great masters who preceded him and yet brings their art into a different dimension, celebrating values different from those presented by Donne and Jonson and other poets to whom Carew is obviously indebted. The short epitaph that I have just read inherits the Jonsonian form as displayed in many of Jonson's own epigrams and epitaphs, but carries beyond Jonson its elegance and perfection of form, its delicacy of sympathetic admiration for dead Beauty.

Carew's admiration for his master, Ben Jonson, is no empty adulation, as we may see from the remarkable poem that Carew wrote to Ben on the occasion of his poetical father's outrageous exhibition of bad temper when the public hissed his play, The New Inn, off the stage in 1629.19 In 1631 Jonson published the play with a title-page in which he blames everybody but himself for the failure:

A Comoedy. As it was never acted, but most
negligently play'd, by some, the Kings Servants.
And more squeamishly beheld, and censured by
others, the Kings Subjects. 1629. Now, at last,
set at liberty to the Readers, his Majesties
Servants, and Subjects, to be judg'd.

He appends to the play a very bad-tempered poem in which he denounces the English audience in these words:

                    Come leave the lothed stage,
                    And the more lothsome age:
Where pride, and impudence (in faction knit)
                                        Usurpe the chaire of wit!
Indicting, and arraigning every day
                                        Something they call a Play.
                    Let their fastidious, vaine
                    Commission of the braine
Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condem'n:
They were not made for thee, lesse, thou for them.

Carew pays his master Ben the ultimate tribute by judging this outburst of temper in strict accordance with the master's own principles. Carew's poem acts as a tacit reminder that Jonson has urged the use of reason and proportion, that he has represented the values of balance and self-control--the virtues of Roman poetry and of Roman morality. The poem is friendly, but judicious, gentle, but firm:

Tis true (deare Ben:) thy just chastizing hand
Hath fixt upon the sotted Age a brand
To their swolne pride, and empty scribbling due,
It can nor judge, nor write, and yet 'tis true
Thy commique Muse from the exalted line
Toucht by thy Alchymist, doth since decline
From that her Zenith, and foretells a red
And blushing evening, when she goes to bed,
Yet such, as shall out-shine the glimmering light
With which all stars shall guild the following night.

We should notice that Carew is paying a brilliant tribute to his master here by writing his poem in the style of Jonson's verse epistles, a style sufficiently end-stopped to keep the couplet form alive, and observing the caesura frequently, in good classical form with an effect of balance and proportion, and yet with a movement flexible enough to allow for the colloquial idiom of a good verse-letter. At the same time Carew reveals here his fine critical sense, recognizing that Jonson had reached the peak of his power in the Alchemist, produced nearly twenty years before. He chides his father by saying that of course an author may very well bind "In equall shares thy love on all thy race;" nevertheless it is the reader's duty to "distinguish of their sexe, and place;"

Though one hand form them, & though one brain strike
Soules into all, they are not all alike.
Why should the follies then of this dull age
Draw from thy Pen such an immodest rage
As seemes to blast thy (else-immortall) Bayes,
When thine owne tongue proclaimes thy ytch of praise?

And he urges his master to continue his learned use of materials from ancient authors, and says that no one should

                  thinke it theft, if the rich spoyles so torne
From conquered Authors, be as Trophies worne--

thus defending Jonson against the charge of plagiarism from ancient authors, a charge often leveled against him. In one phrase he sums up the essence of Jonsonian technique:

Repine not at the Tapers thriftie waste,
That sleekes thy terser Poems ...

Terser is the exact word to describe the essence of Jonsonian art, for terse means not simply concise and compact, but it means, in Elizabethan English, polished, brilliant, sleeked, burnished by careful craftsmanship.

Such then is Carew's critical admiration for one of the old masters, even in that master's declining years. But there were other masters. One of them has inspired what is perhaps Carew's greatest poem: "An Elegie upon the death of the Deane of Pauls, Dr. John Donne." Here Carew sums up Donne's achievement with a critical acumen never surpassed in later critical writings: if we grasp the poem we grasp Donne. Carew saw, as well as T. S. Eliot, Donne's power of feeling his thought as immediately as the odor of a rose; he saw as well as Grierson Donne's immense power of "passionate ratiocination" where image and argument are compressed in one dramatic moment:

                                                   But the flame
Of thy brave Soule, (that shot such heat and light,
As burnt our earth, and made our darknesse bright,
Committed holy Rapes upon our Will,
Did through the eye the melting heart distill;
And the deepe knowledge of darke truths so teach,
As sense might judge, what phansie could not reach;)
Must be desir'd for ever.

And we note that Carew here surpasses all other critical essays on Donne by creating his essay in Donne's own style, with the enormous suspension of syntax over-riding the couplet form in the manner of Donne's long passionate utterances. He praises Donne for refusing to imitate ancient authors and for using the English language in a remarkably original fashion that enabled Donne to excel poets who were born to speak languages more musical than English--languages such as Latin or Italian, "whose tun'd chime / More charmes the outward sense."

                                         Yet thou maist claime
From so great disadvantage greater fame,
Since to the awe of thy imperious wit
Our stubborne language bends, made only fit
With her tough-thick-rib'd hoopes to gird about
Thy Giant phansie, which had prov'd too stout
For their soft melting Phrases.

Here the phrase "imperious wit" strikes to the very center of Donne's achievement, for Carew is using wit here in the broad seventeenth-century sense, meaning creative intellect, along with all the other associations that wit has in our own day. Donne's imperious intellect, his indomitable reason, bends our stubborn language into forms unprecedented in earlier ages, creating those extraordinary stanza forms that Donne used for one poem and one poem only. We should note here that Carew is praising Donne in a way that seems to castigate himself, for Carew well knows that he himself is a writer of "soft melting Phrases" and that he himself has brought back into poetry the kind of mythological imagery which he praises Donne for having banished from English verse:

      But thou art gone, and thy strict lawes will be
Too hard for Libertines in Poetrie.
They will repeale the goodly exil'd traine
Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just raigne
Were banish'd nobler Poems, now, with these
The silenc'd tales o'th' Metamorphoses
Shall stuffe their lines, and swell the windy Page,
Till Verse refin'd by thee, in this last Age
Turne ballad rime, Or those old Idolls bee
Ador'd againe, with new apostasie;

And Carew then concludes by lines that celebrate the end of an era, appropriately echoing both Shakespeare and Donne,20 as his Elegy proclaims

The death of all the Arts, whose influence
Growne feeble, in these panting numbers lies
Gasping short winded Accents, and so dies:
So doth the swiftly turning wheele not stand
In th'instant we withdraw the moving hand,
But some small time maintaine a faint weake course
By vertue of the first impulsive force:

Thus Carew, writing shortly after Donne's death in 1631, grasps both the style and the deep significance of Donne's poetical achievement. Carew is indeed one of the great critics of English literature; if he had been writing in our own day he would undoubtedly be known as one of the "new critics."

The extraordinary Mannerist quality that Carew has, in imitating to perfection the style of the great masters, is shown with equal strength in another "critical essay" that he wrote, "To my worthy friend Master Geo. Sands, on his translation of the Psalmes," as the title reads in Carew's collected poems. Here is another poem in pentameter couplets, but we notice that the style does not display either the moderate, flexibly end-stopped movement of Jonson's verse epistles, nor the passionate rush of Donne's over-riding Muse:

I presse not to the Quire, nor dare I greet
The holy place with my unhallowed feet;
My unwasht Muse, polutes not things Divine,
Nor mingles her prophaner notes with thine;
Here, humbly at the porch she listning stayes,
And with glad eares sucks in thy sacred layes.
So, devout penitents of Old were wont,
Some without dore, and some beneath the Font,
To stand and heare the Churches Liturgies,
Yet not assist the solemne exercise:
Sufficeth her, that she a lay-place gaine,
To trim thy Vestments, or but beare thy traine;
Though nor in tune, nor wing, she reach thy Larke,
Her Lyrick feet may dance before the Arke.

These couplets are completely end-stopped, each couplet standing as a perfect unit, somewhat anticipating the Augustan manner in caesura, balance, and antithesis. Carew is presenting here a superb imitation of the couplet style that George Sandys had achieved in his famous translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, published in 1626, and widely regarded by modern scholars as a very important step in the creation of the couplet form mastered by Dryden and Pope.21 Equally important, one should note that exactly this kind of closed couplet also covers many pages in the volume, A Paraphrase Upon the Divine Poems, by George Sandys, in which Carew's poem first appeared, in 1638, headed simply "To my worthy friend Mr. George Sandys." Carew is not thinking only of the Psalms here, although Sandys did translate eighteen of the Psalms in this volume into pentameter couplets; but the volume also contains enormous paraphrases of other books of the Bible, such as the fifty-five-page paraphrase of the Book of Job with which the volume opens, done in the closed couplet form. As usual, Carew is fitting the style of his essay to the form of the poetry that he is celebrating.

What we see then in these three poems to three early masters, Jonson, Donne, and Sandys, is Carew's critical ability to enter into the very world created by other poets, to absorb them, understand them, and recreate them in his own mind--surely the basic quality that one expects in any good critic. But Carew's critical sense is best shown by his realization of the limitations of his own Muse, which, as he says, is made to sing the cause of Love and Beauty, as indeed he has done for the whole Cavalier Court. A great many of Carew's poems are entitled "Song" and rightly so, for dozens of them were set to music by the best musicians at the Court of Charles I. Some sixty musical settings for his Songs have been discovered22--most of them by Henry Lawes, the chief composer of the day in England, the man who composed the music for Milton's masque in 1634, who in fact directed the masque and played the part of Thyrsis in it. In 1634, Carew and Milton were both participating in the Mannerist art of the Cavalier Court; and indeed the two Egerton boys, who played in Milton's masque, had played only a few months before in Carew's masque Coelum Britannicum. The great divisions that were soon to split all England had not yet appeared within the world of art.

In these love songs Carew is working in the great European tradition of the courtly love-lyric, inspired by all the Italian love-poets from Petrarch down to Carew's contemporary Marino, and also inspired by many French poets of the sixteenth century.23 It is important to remember that Charles's Queen, Henrietta Maria, was a Frenchwoman, the daughter of a Medici, and that she brought with her into England an affection for the graceful beauty of French and Italian art-forms, from which the Court masque indeed derives. These European courtly analogues outweigh any echoes that may be assembled from Donne or even from Jonson. Certainly Carew owes something to Donne and distinct echoes of Donne's poems can easily be found, as in his poem, "Upon a Ribband," in which he echoes Donne's famous conceit, "A bracelet of bright haire about the bone," used by Donne in "The Funerall" and in "The Relique." But significantly, this macabre image, combining a symbol of physical love with a symbol of death, is turned by Carew into a graceful compliment. The bracelet here is no longer a "wreath of haire," but is simply a ribbon, a "silken wreath," tied gracefully about the poet's wrist. It is a symbol of what happened to Donne's inspiration when it entered into Carew's realm celebrating the Queen of Love and Beauty:

This silken wreath, which circles in mine arme,
Is but an Emblem of that mystique charme,
Wherewith the magique of your beauties binds
My captive soule, and round about it winds
Fetters of lasting love; This hath entwind
My flesh alone, That hath empalde my mind:
Time may weare out These soft weak bands; but Those
Strong chaines of brasse, Fate shall not discompose.
This holy relique may preserve my wrist,
But my whole frame doth by That power subsist:

Appropriately, the first five lines of the poem have something of the run-on movement of Donne's dynamic rhythms, but in the last five lines above, we notice that the verse-form gradually modulates into the courtly, Jonsonian mode of the pentameter couplet. The extravagant preoccupation with Donne's influence that marked literary criticism in the earlier years of the twentieth century has led to the listing of Carew in standard bibliographies and anthologies of "The Metaphysical Poets;" yet, as the above poem indicates, the word "metaphysical" will apply only to some of the surface aspects of Carew's work, and even then in only a few of his poems. Songs such as "Ingratefull beauty threatned" or "To my inconstant Mistris" clearly show the accent and the rigorous realism of Donne's dramatic addresses to his Lady:

Know, Celia, (since thou art so proud,)
                    'Twas I that gave thee thy renowne:
Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd
                    Of common beauties, liv'd unknowne,
Had not my verse exhal'd thy name,
And with it, ympt the wings of fame.


Tempt me with such affrights no more,
                    Lest what I made, I uncreate;
Let fooles thy mystique formes adore,
                    I'le know thee in thy mortall state:
Wise Poets that wrap't Truth in tales,
Knew her themselves, through all her vailes.

It has the ring of Donne about it, and yet the Lady's name, Celia, used in many of Carew's poems, links the poem also with the tradition of the Sons of Ben Jonson. The examples of both Donne and Jonson are present in this poem; both poets cooperated in giving Carew's lyrics this quality of terse, colloquial speech. But such a poem as this is quite unusual in Carew's work--there are only four or five other songs which might be found thus to combine the movement of Donne and Jonson. Most of Carew's lyrics are drawn from the courtly world of the whole European Renaissance. This is especially true of Carew's famous erotic poem, "A Rapture," where he urges his Celia in cadences that strongly echo Donne in many places, and yet the total effect of the poem does not at all create the world that we know from Donne's Elegies. Carew's poem achieves success and even a sense of purity, through Carew's delicate use of traditional pastoral images, all imbued with a sense of nature's deep vitality:

Meane while the bubbling streame shall court the shore,
Th'enamoured chirping Wood-quire shall adore
In varied tunes the Deitie of Love;
The gentle blasts of Westerne winds, shall move
The trembling leaves, & through their close bows breath
Still Musick, whilst we rest our selves beneath
Their dancing shade; till a soft murmure, sent
From soules entranc'd in amorous languishment
Rowze us, and shoot into our veines fresh fire,
Till we, in their sweet extasie expire.
          Then, as the empty Bee, that lately bore,
Into the common treasure, all her store,
Flyes 'bout the painted field with nimble wing,
Deflowring the fresh virgins of the Spring;
So will I rifle all the sweets, that dwell
In my delicious Paradise, and swell
My bagge with honey, drawne forth by the power
Of fervent kisses, from each spicie flower.

Thus it seems appropriate that the editor of Carew's volume of 1640 should have chosen as the first poem "The Spring" (and we might remember and contrast it with Donne's "Spring" poem "Loves Growth"). Here in Carew's poem is none of Donne's passionate reasoning, none of Donne's philosophical argumentation and racy wit. Carew's poem is composed in courtly cadences with a perfection of Mannerist elegance, in couplets marked with strong caesurae; indeed the whole poem is poised upon a major caesura in the center, for it is a poem of twenty-four lines which pauses and gracefully turns in another direction exactly in the middle of its thirteenth line. In its Cavalier elegance, its Mannerist styling, with all its subtle harmonies of sound, it draws together themes celebrated in dozens of French, Italian, and English poems of the earlier Renaissance, pastoral, and Petrarchan. But here is the poem in all its perfection:

Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grasse, or castes an ycie creame
Upon the silver Lake, or Chrystall streame:
But the warme Sunne thawes the benummed Earth,
And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth
To the dead Swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowzie Cuckow, and the Humble-Bee.
Now doe a quire of chirping Minstrels bring
In tryumph to the world, the youthfull Spring.
The Vallies, hills, and woods, in rich araye,
Welcome the comming of the long'd for May.
Now all things smile; onely my Love doth lowre:
Nor hath the scalding Noon-day-Sunne the power,
To melt that marble yce, which still doth hold
Her heart congeald, and makes her pittie cold.
The Oxe which lately did for shelter flie
Into the stall, doth now securely lie
In open fields; and love no more is made
By the fire side; but in the cooler shade
Amyntas now doth with his Cloris sleepe
Under a Sycamoure, and all things keepe
Time with the season, only shee doth carry
Iune in her eyes, in her heart Ianuary.

But whether the mistress represents June or January, it appears that she is equally beautiful, since the beauty of the winter is clearly being presented in a lovely manner in the first few lines, and certainly the appreciation of nature suggests the natural vitality that lurks within the Lady's eyes. And the same is true of the entire poem: it is a graceful creation in which a few touches of natural vigor suffice to prevent the Mannerist perfection from falling into frigidity.

Finally, we may find all these forces, love-songs of the European Renaissance, the craftsmanship of Jonson, and something even perhaps of the metaphysical note of Donne, in Carew's most famous poem, properly entitled simply "A Song":

Aske me no more where love bestowes,
When Iune is past, the fading rose:
For in your beauties orient deepe,
These flowers as in their causes, sleepe.

As readers have often pointed out, the word causes adds to the poem a metaphysical note that carries the poem beyond the range of the usual Cavalier lyric, for it evokes Aristotle's doctrine of the four causes: formal, material, efficient, and final (purposive), all of which are contained in the Lady's beauty.

Aske me no more whether doth stray,
The golden Atomes of the day:
For in pure love heaven did prepare
Those powders to inrich your haire.
Aske me no more whether doth hast,
The Nightingale when May is past:
For in your sweet dividing throat,
She winters and keepes warme her note.
Aske me no more where those starres light,
That downewards fall in dead of night:
For in your eyes they sit, and there,
Fixed become as in their sphere.
Aske me no more if East or West,
The Phenix builds her spicy nest:
For unto you at last shee flies,
And in your fragrant bosome dyes.

We notice how these stanzas move from the "golden Atomes" of daylight through the wintering song of the nightingale and into certain suggestions of death and falling in the third stanza--a movement from light to dark, from life to death, summed up in the final stanza where the Phoenix image provides a symbol of both death and resurrection. Thus the poem has, after all, something of the metaphysical movement from the Many toward the One. Here, of course, all is treated in a tone of courtly compliment, but nevertheless with something of Donne's manner of turning all transient images of the Many toward the Oneness that he seeks in his love. The sense of change and death is controlled by turning all things toward the causes of his love, and this in miniature is Donne's effect.

In miniature, Carew displays a perfection of form and manner that Donne and Jonson themselves never quite achieved with their more robust and wide-ranging powers; thus Carew's whole volume of 1640 may be said to represent the ideals of the Cavalier world in a series of poetical miniatures, graceful, elegant, perfectly crafted, perfectly absorbing the lessons of the earlier masters. It is a world of art-forms, too fragile to sustain the violent pressures of the times. But in the paintings of Van Dyck, in the drawings of Inigo Jones, and in the poetry of Carew and his friends, those forms of art survive the ashes of political disaster.


1Quotations from Carew's poetry are taken from The Poems of Thomas Carew, with his Masque Coelum Britannicum, ed. Rhodes Dunlap, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1949; I am throughout this lecture indebted to Dunlap's introduction and commentary.

2The text of Salmacida Spolia (ed. T. J. B. Spencer) is available in A Book of Masques, in Honour of Allardyce Nicoll (Cambridge University Press, 1967), pp. 337-70; for my quotations see pp. 347, 357-8. Many of Inigo Jones's drawings for Salmacida Spolia are handsomely reproduced in Festival Designs by Inigo Jones: Drawings for Scenery & Costume from the Devonshire Collection, Chatsworth, Introduction and Catalogue by Roy Strong, Foreword by Thomas S. Wragg (International Exhibitions Foundation, 1967), plates 90-103. See the full catalogue of the Jones drawings at Chatsworth: Percy Simpson and C. F. Bell, Designs by Inigo Jones for Masques & Plays at Court (Oxford, 1924), Walpole Society, vol. 12; with many illustrations. Also Allardyce Nicoll, Stuart Masques and the Renaissance Stage, New York, Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1938; with many illustrations.

3The Dramatic Records of Sir Henry Herbert, ed. Joseph Quincy Adams (New Haven, Yale University Press, 1917), p. 55. For extracts from contemporary documents concerning the production of Carew's masque see Gerald Eades Bentley, The Jacobean and Caroline Stage, 7 vols. (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1941-68), III, 106-10. For Inigo Jones's drawings for this masque see Simpson and Bell, Designs, Nos. 191-209.

4Poems of Carew, ed. Dunlap, p. 177.

5Ibid., pp. 178-9.

6Townshend's poem to Carew is printed in Poems of Carew, ed. Dunlap, pp. 207-8. My dating of Carew's poem depends upon the reference to Montagu's Shepheards Paradise, produced on January 9, 1633. Of course, the elaborate preparations for this play were discussed at Court throughout the preceding Fall: see Bentley, op. cit., IV, 917-21; the Queen and her Ladies were reported as already "practising" their parts by September 20, 1632. Carew may well have seen rehearsals; but his poem seems to be describing a full-scale performance of some kind. Townshend's verse-letter speaks of how "the windes from every corner bring / The too true nuse of the dead conquering king." Allowing several weeks for this "news" to reach England, one might wish to date Carew's answer in late November or in December, 1632. On the other hand, if Townshend was writing around to his friends to collect a group of elegies, he might well have been doing this in January. A collection of ten elegies on Gustavus Adolphus was in fact published in The Swedish Intelligencer, Third Part, London, 1633; all of these are printed anonymously, except for one by Henry King.

7See Bentley, op. cit., IV, 918; Simpson and Bell, Designs, Nos. 163-79.

8Poems of Carew, ed. Dunlap, p. 252.

9See Aurelian Townshend's Poems and Masks, ed. E. K. Chambers (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1912), pp. 90-91:

In the midst of the ayre the eight Spheares in rich habites were seated on a Cloud, which in a circular forme was on each side continued unto the highest part of the Heaven, and seem'd to have let them downe as in a Chaine.

To the Musicke of these Spheares there appear'd two other Clouds descending, & in them were discovered eight Stars; these being come to the middle Region of the skie, another greater Cloud came downe above them; Which by little and little descending, discovered other glistering Stars to the number of sixe: and above all in a Chariot of gold smithes workes richly adorned with precious Iemmes, sat divine Beauty, over whose head, appear'd a brightnesse, full of small starres that inviron'd the top of the Chariot, striking a light round about it. ...

This sight altogether was for the difficulty of the Ingining and number of the persons the greatest that hath beene seene here in our time. For the apparitions of such as came downe in the ayre, and the Choruses standing beneath arrived to the number of fifty persons all richly attired, shewing the magnificence of the Court of England."

See Simpson and Bell, Designs, Nos. 139-62.

10Townshend, Poems and Masks, ed. Chambers, p. 93.

11Ibid., p. 96: "the Eagle with love flew up, and Cupid tooke his flight through the Ayre, after which the Heavens close."

12The whole fourth Act of The Shepheards Paradise is full of abstract conversation about the pure and spiritual nature of Love, and at the beginning of the fifth Act, Genorio exclaims:

"Me-thinks I find my mind on wing, loose from my senses, which like limed twigs held it till now. It is so light, and so ascensive now, it meanes to work it selfe above Martiroes. I am already so farre towards it, as the beliefe that I did never love till now. O how I was deceived, while I conceived that Love was so Materiall it could be touched, and grasp't! I find it an undepending ayrinesse that both supports, and fills it selfe, and is to be felt by what it nourisheth, no more then aire, whose virtue onely we discerne."

Shepheards Paradise (1659), p. 110.

13Ibid., p. 112. Bentley (op. cit., IV, 918) quotes a contemporary as reporting that the Queen, in her performance of The Shepheards Paradise, "is said to have herself excelled really all others both in acting and singing" (my italics).

14Townshend, Poems and Masks, ed. Chambers, p. 13; taken from Henry Lawes, The Second Book of Ayres and Dialogues, 1655, where the song is attributed to Townshend.

15Folger ms. 4462: see Bentley, op. cit., IV, 920; and G. Thorn-Drury, A Little Ark, Containing Sundry Pieces of Seventeenth-Century Verse (London, Dobell, 1921), pp. 4-7, where Thorn-Drury prints the Prologue and four songs that occur between the acts; the Folger ms. was then in Thorn-Drury's possession.

16Thus Townshend's work might be said to "comprise" (comprehend, contain, sum up) "the beauties of the SHEPHERDS PARADISE." In this connection, Erica Veevers has called attention to the existence in the Huntington Library of a printed fragment or synopsis of a pastoral masque by Townshend that seems to bear a close relation to The Shepheards Paradise. She suggests that Townshend may have written this entertainment "to complement a performance of Montagu's play." See Notes and Queries, 210 (1965), pp. 343-5. (The fragment by Townshend is also described by Bentley, op. cit., V, 1231.) See also the rejoinder by Paulina Palmer (Notes and Queries, 211 [1966], pp. 303-4), who calls attention to Townshend's poem in praise of the Queen's singing. Since there appear to have been at least two performances of The Shepheards Paradise, there is room to conjecture several occasions on which Montagu's play may have been enhanced by Townshend's aid.

17See the interpretation of this painting by Erwin Panofsky, Studies in Iconology, Harper Torchbooks (New York, Harper and Row, 1962), pp. 86-91 (originally pub. by Oxford University Press, 1939).

18John Sherman, Mannerism (London, Penguin Books, 1967), pp. 15-30.

19See the analysis of this poem by Edward I. Selig, The Flourishing Wreath. A Study of Thomas Carew's Poetry (New Haven, Yale University Press, 1958), pp. 150-60; this whole book has many fine insights into Carew's poetry. See also the excellent series of articles by Rufus Blanshard: "Carew and Jonson," Studies in Philology, 52 (1955), pp. 195-211; "Thomas Carew and the Cavalier Poets," Transactions of the Wisconsin Academy, 43 (1954), pp. 97-105; "Thomas Carew's Master Figures," Boston University Studies in English, 3 (1957), pp. 214-27. See also the chapter by George Williamson, "The Fringe of the Tradition," in The Donne Tradition, Cambridge, Harvard University Press, 1930; and the classic essay by F. R. Leavis, "The Line of Wit," in Revaluation (London, Chatto and Windus, 1936), esp. p. 38, with its witty summation of the eclectic effects of Carew's epitaph on Maria Wentworth: "It opens in the manner of Ben Jonson's Epitaphs. The conceit in the second stanza is both Jonson and Donne, and the third stanza is specifically Metaphysical. After the Augustan passage we come to the Caroline wit of the 'chaste Poligamie.' And we end with a line in Marvell's characteristic movement. ..."

20Dunlap (Poems of Carew, p. 251) notes the echo of the opening lines of I Henry IV: "... Finde we a time for frighted Peace to pant, / And breath shortwinded accents of new broils ..." One should note too the echo of Donne's First Anniversary (67-73), esp. of Donne's phrase "A faint weake love of vertue" (71). See also Donne's Second Anniversary (6-7): "But as a ship which hath strooke saile, doth runne / By force of that force which before, it wonne."

21See Ruth C. Wallerstein, "The Development of the Rhetoric and Metre of the Heroic Couplet, Especially in 1625-1645," PMLA, 50 (1935), pp. 166-209; esp. pp. 186-93 for the influence of Sandys's Ovid and paraphrase of Job.

22See Dunlap's "Note on the Musical Settings of Carew's Poems," in his edition of Carew, pp. 289-93.

23See Dunlap's many analogies in the notes to his edition of Carew.

Source: Louis L. Martz, "Thomas Carew: The Cavalier World," in The Wit of Love, University of Notre Dame Press, 1969, pp. 60-110.