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WILLIAM HABINGTON.

TO CASTARA,

INTENDING A JOURNEY INTO THE COUNTREY.

Way haste you hence, Castara? Can the Earth,
A glorious mother, in her flowry birth,
Show lillies like thy brow? Can she disclose,
In emulation of thy cheeke, a rose,
Sweete as thy blush ; upon thy selfe then set
Just value, and scorne it thy counterfet.
The spring's still with thee; but perhaps the field,
Not warm’d with thy approach, wants force to yeeld
Her tribute to the plough; O rather let
Th’ingrateful Earth for ever be in debt
To th' hope of sweating Industry, than we
Should starve with cold, who have no heat but thee.

Nor feare the publike good. Thy eyes can give
A life to all, who can deserve to live.

TO CASTARA,

BEING DEBARR’D HER PRESENCE.

Banisht from you, I charg'd the nimble winde,
My unseene messenger, to speak my minde,
In am'rous whispers to you. But my Muse,
Lest the unruly spirit should abuse
The trust repos'd in him, sayd it was due
To her alone, to sing my loves to you. [eye
Heare her then speake. “Bright lady, from whose
Shot lightning to his heart, who joyes to die
A martyr in your flames : 0 let your love
Be great and firme as his : Then nought shall move
Your setled faiths, that both may grow together:
Or if by Fate divided, both may wither.
Harke ! 'twas a groane. Ah how sad absence rends
His troubled thoughts ! See, he from Marlow sends
His eyes to Seymors. Then chides th’ envious trees,
And unkinde distance. Yet his fancie sees
And courts your beauty, joyes as he had cleav'd
Close to you, and then weepes because deceiv'd.
Be constant as y' are faire. For I fore-see
A glorious trumph waits o'th' victorie
Your love will purchase, showing us to prize
A true content. There onely Love hath eyes.”

THE DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA.

LIKE the violet which alone
Prospers in some happy shade :
My Castara lives unknowne,
To no looser eye betray’d,

For shee's to her selfe untrue,
Who delights i' th’ publicke view.

Such is her beauty, as no arts
Have enricht with borrowed grace.
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place.

Folly boasts a glorious blood,
She is noblest being good.

Cautious she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant ;
Not speaks loud to boast her wit,
In her silence eloquent.

Of her self survey she takes,
But tweene men no difference makes.

She obeys with speedy will
Her grave parents' wise commands.
And so innocent, that ill,
She nor acts, nor understands.

Women's feet runne still astray,
If once to ill they know the way.

She sailes by that rocke, the court,
Where oft honour splits her mast :
And retir'dnesse thinks the port,
Where her fame may anchor cast.

Vertue safely cannot sit,
Where vice is enthron'd for wit.

She holds that daye's pleasure best,
Where sinne waits not on delight,

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Without maske, or ball, or feast,
Sweetly spends a winter's night.

O'er that darknesse, whence is thrust
Prayer, and sleepe oft governs lust.

She her throne makes reason climbe,
While wild passions captive lie.
And each article of time,
Her pure thoughts to Heaven flie:

All her vowes religious be,
And her love she vowes to me.

70 CASTARA.

UPON THOUGHT OF AGE AND DEATH.

The breath of time shall blast the flow'ry spring,
Which so perfumes thy cheeke, and with it bring
So dark a mist, as shall eclipse the light
Of thy faire eyes in an eternal night,
Some melancholy chamber of the earth,
(For that like Time devours whom it gave breath)
Thy beauties shall entombe, while all who ere
Lov'd nobly, offer up their sorrowes there.
But I, whose griefe no formal limits bound,
Beholding the darke caverne of that ground,
Will there immure my selfe. And thus I shall
Thy mourner be, and my owne funerall.
Else by the weeping magicke of my verse,
Thou hast reviv'd to triumph o'er thy hearse.

TO CASTARA.

TAE REWARD OF INNOCENT LOVE,

We saw and woo'd each other's eyes,
My soule contracted then with thine,
And both burnt in one sacrifice,
By which our marriage grew divine.

Let wilder youth, whose soule is sense,
Prophane the temple of delight,
And purchase endlesse penitence,
With the stolne pleasure of one night.

Time's ever ours, while we despise
The sensuall idol of our clay,
For though the Sunne doe set and rise,
We joy one everlasting day.

Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,
While each of us shine innocent,
The troubled stream is still impure,
With vertue flies away content.

And though opinions often erre,
Wee'le court the modest smile of fame,
For sinne's blacke danger circles her,
Who hath infection in her name.

Thus when to one darke silent roome, Death shall our loving coffins thrust ; Fame will build columnes on our tombe, And adde a perfume to our dust.

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