Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE COMPLEMENT, by THOMAS CAREW


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE COMPLEMENT, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: O my dearest, I shall grieve thee
Last Line: But, wouldst thou know, dear sweet, for all.
Subject(s): Love – Nature Of; Beauty


O MY dearest, I shall grieve thee,
When I swear (yet, sweet, believe me)
By thine eyes, the tempting book
On which even crabbed old men look,
I swear to thee, (though none abhor them,)
Yet I do not love thee for them.

I do not love thee for that fair
Rich fan of thy most curious hair;
Though the wires thereof be drawn
Finer than the threads of lawn,
And are softer than the leaves
On which the subtle spinner weaves.

I do not love thee for those flowers
Growing on thy cheeks (Love's bowers);
Though such cunning them hath spread,
None can part their white and red;
Love's golden arrows thence are shot,
Yet for them I love thee not.

I do not love thee for those soft
Red coral lips I 've kiss'd so oft;
Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard
To speech, whence music still is heard;
Though from those lips a kiss being taken
Might tyrants melt, and death awaken.

I do not love thee, O my fairest!
For that richest, for that rarest
Silver pillar which stands under
Thy round head, that globe of wonder;
Though that neck be whiter far
Than towers of polish'd ivory are.

I do not love thee for those mountains
Hill'd with snow, whence milky fountains
(Sugar'd sweets, as syrup'd berries)
Must one day run through pipes of cherries:
O how much those breasts do move me!
Yet for them I do not love thee.

I do not love thee for that belly,
Sleek as satin, soft as jelly;
Though within that crystal mound
Heaps of treasure might be found,
So rich, that for the least of them
A king might leave his diadem.

I do not love thee for those thighs,
Whose alabaster rocks do rise
So high and even, that they stand
Like sea-marks to some happy land:
Happy are those eyes have seen them,
More happy they that sail between them.

I love thee not for thy moist palm,
Though the dew thereof be balm;
Nor for thy pretty leg and foot,
Although it be the precious root
On which this goodly cedar grows:
Sweet, I love thee not for those.

Nor for thy wit, though pure and quick,
Whose substance no arithmetic
Can number down; nor for those charms
Mask'd in thy embracing arms;
Though in them one night to lie,
Dearest, I would gladly die.

I love not for those eyes, nor hair,
Nor cheeks, nor lips, nor teeth so rare;
Nor for thy speech, thy neck, nor breast,
Nor for thy belly, nor the rest;
Nor for thy hand nor foot so small:
But, wouldst thou know, dear sweet, for all.





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