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"I see" (reply'd his friend) " you nothing lack Of what is painful, curious, and discreet

Brought cares to Dalga's brow, which like a cloud In travaillers, else would you not look back Did soon her shining beauty over-cast.

Like thieves surpris'd whilst they divide their prise,"
Her maids run and return thro' ev'ry room,
Still seeming doubtful where their safety lies;

All speaking with their looks, and all are dumb.

She, who to dangers could more boldly wake,

With words, swift as those errands which her heart

Sends out in glances, thus to Goltho spake :
"My mother, sir! Alas! you must depart!

So often to observe this house and street:

Drawing your city mapp with coasters' care; Not onely marking where safe channels run, But where the shelves, and rocks, and dangers are, To teach weak strangers what they ought to shun.

"But, Goltho, fly from lust's experiments!
Whose heat we quench much sooner than as
swage:

To quench the furnace-lust, stop all the vents;
For, give it any air, the flames will rage.'

WILLIAM HABINGTON.

1605-1654.

THIS amiable man, and irreproachable poet, was born at Hindlip, in Worcestershire, on the 5th of November, 1605, - -a most memorable day in the history of the Habington family; for they were Papists. The discovery of the gunpowder plot is believed to have come from his mother; and his father, who had been six years imprisoned for his supposed concern in Babington's conspiracy, was condemned to die for concealing some of the gunpowder traitors in his house. Whether or not he had actually been so far implicated in their legal guilt is not certain; but he owed his pardon to the intercession of his brother-in-law, Lord Morley.

They were a wealthy family. William was edu

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cated in the Jesuit College at St. Omer's, and afterwards at Paris, in the hope that he might enter into that society. But he preferred a wiser, and better, and happier, course of life; and, returning to his own country, married Lucy, daughter of William Herbert, first Lord Powis, the Castara of his poems. He died when he had just compleated his fortieth year, and was buried in the family vault at Hindlip. The poems were introduced, for the first time, into a general collection, by Mr. Chalmers, most properly. He appears in them to have thoroughy deserved the happiness which during his short life he enjoyed.

CASTARA.

THE FIRST PART.

· Carmina, non prius Audita, Musarum sacerdos virginibus.

A MISTRESS

Is the fairest treasure, the avarice of Love can covet; and the onely white, at which he shootes his arrowes, nor while his aime is noble, can he ever hit upon repentance. She is chaste, for the devill enters the idoll and gives the oracle, when wantonnesse possesseth beauty, and wit maintaines it lawfull. She is as faire as Nature intended her, helpt perhaps to a more pleasing grace by the sweetnesse of education, not by the slight of art. She is young, for a woman past the delicacie of her spring, may well move by vertue to respect, never by beauty to affection. Shee is innocent even from the knowledge of sinne, for vice is too strong to be wrastled with, and gives her frailty the foyle. She is not proude, though the amorous youth interpret her modestie to that sence; but in her vertue weares so much majestie, lust dares not rebell, nor though masqued, under the pretence of love, capitulate with her. She entertaines not every parley offer'd, although the articles pretended to her advantage: advice and her owne feares restraine her, and

Her

woman never owed ruine to too much caution. She glories not in the plurality of servants, a multitude of adorers Heaven can onely challenge; and it is impietie in her weakenesse to desire superstition from many. She is deafe to the whispers of love, and even on the marriage houre can breake off, without the least suspition of scandall, to the former liberty of her carriage. She avoydes a too neere conversation with man, and like the Parthian overcomes by flight. language is not copious but apposit, and she had rather suffer the reproach of being dull company, than have the title of witty, with that of bold and wanton. In her carriage she is sober, and thinkes her youth expresseth life enough, without the giddy motion, fashion of late hath taken up. She danceth to the best applause, but doates not on the vanity of it, nor licenceth an irregular meeting to vaunt the levity of her skill. She sings, but not perpetually, for she knowes, silence in a woman is the most perswading oratory. never arrived to so much familiarity with man as to know the demunitive of his name, and call him by it; and she can shew a competent favour: without yeelding her hand to his gripe. never understood the language of a kisse, but at salutation, nor dares the courtier use so much of his practised impudence as to offer the rape of it from her because chastity hath write it unlawfull, and her behaviour proclaimes it unwelcome. She is never sad, and yet not jiggish; her conscience is cleere from guilt, and that secures her from sorrow. She is not passionately in love with poetry, because it softens the heart too much to love: but she likes the harmony in the com

She

Shee

From the rude blasts of wanton breath,
Each houre more innocent and pure,
Till you shall wither into death.

position; and the brave examples of vertue cele- | In those white cloysters live secure
brated by it, she proposeth to her imitation. She
is not vaine in the history of her gay kindred
or acquaintance: since vertue is often tenant to a
cottage, and familiarity with greatnesse (if worth
be not transcendant above the title) is but a glo-
rious servitude, fooles onely are willing to suffer.
She is not ambitious to be praised, and yet val-
lues death beneath infamy. And Ile conclude,
(though the next sinod of ladies condemne this
character as an heresie broacht by a precision)
that onely she who hath as great a share in vertue
as in beauty, deserves a noble love to serve her,
and a free poesie to speake her.

TO CASTARA.

A SACRIFICE.

LET the chaste phoenix from the flowry East,
Bring the sweete treasure of her perfum'd nest,
As incense to this altar; where the name
Of my Castara's grav'd by th' hand of Fame.
Let purer virgins, to redeeme the aire
From loose infection, bring their zealous prayer,
T'assist at this great feast: where they shall see,
What rites Love offers up to Chastity.

Let all the amorous youth, whose faire desire
Felt never warmth but from a noble fire,
Bring hither their bright flames: which here shall
As tapers fixt about Castara's shrine.

[shine

While I the priest, my untam'd heart, surprise,
And in this temple mak't her sacrifice.

Then that which living gave you roome,
Your glorious sepulcher shall be :
There wants no marble for a tombe,
Whose brest hath marble beene to me.

TO CASTARA.

A VOW.

By those chaste lamps which yeeld a silent light,
To the cold vrnes of virgins; by that night,
Which guilty of no crime, doth only heare
The vowes of recluse nuns, and th' an'thrit's prayer;
And by thy chaster selfe; my fervent zeale
Like mountaine yce, which the north winds con-
To purest christall, feels no wanton fire:
But as the humble pilgrim, (whose desire
Blest in Christ's cottage view by angels' hands
Transported from sad Bethlem,) wondring stands
At the great miracle; so I at thee,

Whose beauty is the shrine of chastity.

[geale,

Thus my bright Muse in a new orbe shall move,
And even teach religion how to love.

TO CASTARA.

PRAYING.

I SAW Castara pray, and from the skie,
A winged legion of bright angels flie

To catch her vowes, for feare her virgin prayer,
Might chance to mingle with impurer aire.
To vulgar eyes, the sacred truth I write,
May seeme a fancie. But the eagle's sight
Of saints, and poets, miracles oft view,
Which to dull heretikes appeare untrue.
Faire zeale begets such wonders. O divine
And purest beauty, let me thee enshrine
In my devoted soule, and from thy praise,
T'enrich my garland, pluck religious bayes.
Shine thou the starre by which my thoughts shall

move,

Best subjest of my pen, queene of my love.

ΤΟ

ROSES IN THE BOSOME OF CASTARA.

YEE blushing virgins happie are
In the chaste nunn'ry of her brests,
For hee'd prophane so chaste a faire,
Who ere should call them Cupid's nests.

Transplanted thus how bright yee grow,
How rich a perfume doe yee yeeld?
In some close garden, cowslips so
Are sweeter than i' the open field.

TO CASTARA,

OF HIS BEING IN LOVE.

WHERE am I? not in Heaven: for oh I feele
The stone of Sisiphus, Ixion's wheele;
And all those tortures, poets (by their wine
Made judges) laid on Tantalus, are mine.
Nor yet am I in Hell; for still I stand,
Though giddy in my passion, on firme land.
And still behold the seasons of the yeare,
Springs in my hope, and winters in my feare.
And sure I'm 'bove the Earth, for th' highest star
Shoots beames, but dim, to what Castara's are;
And in her sight and favour I even shine
In a bright orbe beyond the christalline.
If then, Castara, I in Heaven nor move,
Nor Earth, nor Hell; where am I but in Love?

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND,
MR. ENDYMION PORTER.

NoT still i' th' shine of kings. Thou dost retire
Sometime to th' holy shade, where the chaste quire
Of Muses doth the stubborne panther awe,
And give the wildernesse of his nature law.
The wind his chariot stops: th' attentive rocke
The rigor doth of its creation mocke,
And gently melts away: Argus, to heare
The musicke, turnes each eye into an eare.
To welcome thee, Endymion, glorious they
Triumph to force these creatures disobey
What Nature hath enacted. But no charme
The Muses have these monsters can disarme
Of their innated rage: no spell can tame
The North-wind's fury, but Castara's name.

Climbe yonder forked hill, and see if there
I' th' barke of every Daphne, not appeare
Castara written; and so markt by me,
How great a prophet growes each virgin tree!
Lie down, and listen what the sacred spring
In her harmonious murmures strives to sing
To th' neighb'ring banke, ere her loose waters erre
Through common channels; sings she not of her?
Behold yond' violet, which such honour gaines,
That growing but to emulate her veines,
It's azured like the skie: when she doth bow
T'invoke Castara, Heav'n perfumes her vow.
The trees, the water, and the flowers adore
The deity of her sex, and through each pore
Breath forth her glories. But unquiet love!
To make thy passions so uncourtly prove,
As if all eares should heare her praise alone:
Now listen thou; Endymion sings his owne.

TO CASTARA,

SOFTLY SINGING TO HER SELFE.

SING forth, sweete cherubin (for we have choice
Of reasons in thy beauty and thy voyce,
To name thee so, and scarce appeare prophane)
Sing forth, that while the orbs celestiall straine
To eccho thy sweete note, our humane eares
May then receive the musicke of the spheares.
But yet take heede, lest if the swans of Thames,
That adde harmonious pleasure to the streames,
O' th' sudden heare thy well-divided breath,
Should listen, and in silence welcome death:
And ravisht nightingales, striving too high
To reach thee, in the emulation dye.

And thus there will be left no bird to sing
Farewell to th' waters, welcome to the spring.

TO CASTARA.

Doɛ not their prophane orgies heare,
Who but to wealth no altars reare.
The soule's oft poys'ned through the eare.

Castara, rather seeke to dwell
I' th' silence of a private cell,
Rich discontent's a glorious Hell.

Yet Hindlip doth not want extent Of roome (though not magnificent) To give free welcome to content.

There shalt thou see the earely Spring, That wealthy stocke of Nature bring, Of which the Sybils bookes did sing.

From fruitlesse palmes shall honey flow, And barren Winter harvest show, While lillies in his bosome grow.

No North winde shall the corne infest,
But the soft spirit of the East,
Our sent with perfum'd banquets feast.

A satyre here and there shall trip,
In hope to purchase leave to sip
Sweete nectar from a Fairie's lip.

The Nymphs with quivers shall adorne
Their active sides, and rouse the morne
With the shrill musicke of their horne.

Wakened with which, and viewing thee,
Faire Daphne her faire selfe shall free,
From the chaste prison of a tree :

And with Narcissus (to thy face
Who humbly will ascribe all grace)
Shall once againe pursue the chase.
So they whose wisdome did discusse
Of these as fictions, shall in us
Finde, they were more than fabulous.

TO A WANTON.

In vaine, faire sorceresse, thy eyes speake charmes,
In vaine thou mak'st loose circles with thy armes.
I'me 'bove thy spels. No magicke him can move,
In whom Castara hath inspir'd her love.
As she, keepe thou strict cent'nell o're thy eare,
Lest it the whispers of soft courtiers heare;
Reade not his raptures, whose invention must
Write journey worke, both for his patron's lust
And his own plush: let no admirer feast
His eye o' th' naked banquet of thy brest.
If this faire president, nor yet my want
Of love, to answer thine, make thee recant
Thy sorc'ries; pity shall to justice turne,
And judge thee witch, in thy own flames to burne.

TO

THE HONOURABLE MY MUCH HO-
NOURED FRIEND, R. B. ESQUIRE.1
WHILE you dare trust the loudest tongue of fame,
The zeale you beare your mistresse to proclaim
To th' talking world: I in the silenst grove,
Scarce to my selfe dare whisper that I love.
Thee titles, Brud'nell, riches thee adorne,
And vigorous youth to vice not headlong borne
By th' tide of custome: which I value more
Than what blind superstitious fooles adore,
Who greatnesse in the chaire of blisse enthrone:
Greatnesse we borrow, vertue is our owne.
In thy attempt be prosperous, and when ere
Thou shalt prefix the houre; may Hymen weare
His brightest robe; where some fam'd Persian shall
Worke by the wonder of her needle all
The nuptiall joyes; which (if we poets be
True prophets) bounteous Heaven designes for thee.
I envie not, but glory in thy fate,

While in the narrow limits of my state

I bound my hopes; which if Castara daigne
Once to entitle hers, the wealthiest graine
My earth, untild, shall beare; my trees shall grone
Under their fruitfull burthen; and at one
And the same season, Nature forth shall bring
Riches of Autumne, pleasures of the Spring.1

1 Robert Brudenell, afterwards second earl of Cardigan.

But digge and thou shalt finde a purer mine
Than th' Indians boast: taste of this generous vine,
And her blood sweeter will than nectar prove,
Such miracles wait on a noble love.

But should she scorn my suite, I'le tread that path
Which none but some sad Fairy beaten hath.
Then force wrong'd Philomel, hearing my mone,
To sigh my greater griefes, forget her owne.

TO CASTARA,

INQUIRING WHY I LOVED HER.

WHY doth the stubborne iron prove
So gentle to th' magnetique stone?
How know you that the orbs doe move;
With musicke too? since heard of none?
And I will answer why I love.

'Tis not thy vertues, each a starre
Which in thy soules bright spheare doe shine,
Shooting their beauties from a farre,

To make each gazer's heart like thine;
Our vertues often meteors are.

'Tis not thy face, I cannot spie,
When poets weepe some virgin's death,
That Cupid wantons in her eye,
Or perfumes vapour from her breath,
And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie.

Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne're
So vaine as in that to delight:
Which, ballance it, no weight doth beare,
Nor yet is object to the sight,
But onely fils the vulgar eare.

Nor yet thy fortunes: since I know
They, in their motion like the sea,

Ebbe from the good, to the impious flow:
And so in flattery betray,

That raising they but overthrow.

And yet these attributes might prove
Fuell enough t'enflame desire;
But there was something from above,
Shot without reason's guide, this fire:
I know, yet know not, why I love.

TO CASTARA,

LOOKING UPON HIM.

TRANSFIX me with that flaming dart,
I' th' eye, or brest, or any part,
So thou, Castara, spare my heart.

The cold Cymerian by that bright
Warme wound i' th' darknesse of his night,
Might both recover heat, and light.

The rugged Scythian gently move,
I' th' whispering shadow of some grove,
That's consecrate to sportive love.

December see the primrose grow,
The rivers in soft murmurs flow,
And from his head shake off his snow.

And crooked age night feele againe

Those heates, of which youth did complaine, While fresh blood swels each withered veyne.

For the bright lustre of thy eyes,
Which but to warme them would suffice,
May burne me to a sacrifice.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE COUNTESSE OF AR.?

WING'D with delight, (yet such as still doth beare
Chast vertue's stamp) those children of the yeere,
The dayes, hast nimbly; and while as they flie,
Each of them with their predecessors vie,
Which yeelds most pleasure; you to them dispence,
What Time lost with his cradle, innocence.
So I (if fancie not delude my sight,)

See often the pale monarch of the night,
Diana, 'mong her nymphs. For every quire
Of vulgar starres who lend their weaker fire
To conquer the night's chilnesse, with their queen.
In harmelesse revels tread the happy greene.
But I who am proscrib'd by tyrant Love,
Seeke out a silent exile in some grove,
Where nought except a solitary spring,
Was ever heard, to which the Nimphs did sing
Narcissus' obsequies: For onely there
Is musique apt to catch an am'rous eare :
Castara! oh my heart! how great a flame
Did even shoot into me with her name?
Castara hath betray'd me to a zeale
Which thus distracts my hopes. Flints may concea
In their cold veynes a fire. But I whose heart
By love's dissolv'd, ne're practis'd that cold art.
But truce thou warring passion, for I'le now
Madam to you addresse this solemne vow.
By virtue and your selfe (best friends) I finde
In the interiour province of your minde
Such government, that if great men obey
Th' example of your order, they will sway
Without reproofe; for only you unite
Honour with sweetenesse, vertue with delight.

VPON CASTARA'S

FROWNE OR SMILE.

LEARNED shade of Tycho Brache, who to us, The stars propheticke language didst impart, And even in life their mysteries discusse: Castara hath o'erthrowne thy strongest art.

When custome struggles from her beaten path,
Then accidents must needs uncertaine be,
For if Castara smile; though winter hath
Lock't up the rivers: summer's warme in me.

And Flora by the miracle reviv'd,

Doth even at her owne beauty wondring stand: But should she frowne, the northerne wind arrivi In midst of summer, leads his frozen band;

Which doth to yce my youthfull blood conges Yet in the midst of yce, still flames my zeale.

2 Margaret daughter of William Douglas, earl of M wife of Archibald, eighth earl of Argyle.

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