I'LL gaze no more on her bewitching face,
Since ruin harbours there in every place ;
For my enchanted soul alike she drowns
With calms and tempests of her smiles and frowns.
I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,
Which, pleased or anger’d, still are murderers :
For if she dart, like lightning, through the air
Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair :
If she behold me with a pleasing eye,
I surfeit with excess of joy, and die.
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Seems like a scorned man who is still infatuated with the object of his lust. I love the way he says he would die of joy if her merely looked at her.
Jennifer -
if i am right, i think carew is saying: beauty is dangerous. distainful or doting, the end of those who give their strengh to them is woeful. perhaps not, but this is how it comes across to me. also, i don't think he's very serious in this poem. he seems more to be jesting, than to be condemning beauty. any other views on this?
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