By that snowy neck alone, Or thy grace in motion seen, No such wonders could be done; Yet thy waist is straight and clean As Cupid's shaft, or Hermes' rod, And powerful too as either god. THE ROSE. Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that 's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That, hadst thou sprung In desarts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired : Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then, die; that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair. ON A GIRDLE. THAT which her slender waist confined It was my heaven's extremest sphere, A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that's fair: Take all the rest the sun goes round. TO A LADY, SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING. CHLORIS, yourself you so excel, When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, That, like a spirit, with this spell Of my own teaching I am caught. That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espyed a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high. Had Echo with so sweet a grace Narcissus' loud complaints return'd, Not for reflection of his face, But of his voice the boy had burn'd. WILLIAM HABINGTON, Born 1605, died 1654. TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA. YE blushing virgins happy are In the chaste nunn'ry of her breasts; Transplanted thus how bright ye grow, In those white cloisters live secure Each hour more innocent and pure, Till you shall wither into death. Then that which living gave you room, Whose breast hath marble been to me. TO CASTARA. Do not their prophane orgies hear, The soul's oft pois'ned through the ear. Castara, rather seek to dwell I' th' silence of a private cell : Yet Hindlip* doth not want extent There shalt thou see the early spring, From fruitless palms shall honey flow, No north wind shall the corn infest, But the soft spirit of the east, Our scent with perfum'd banquets feast. A satyr here and there shall trip, *The poet's residence. The Nymphs with quivers shall adorn Wakened with which, and viewing thee, And with Narcissus (to thy face So they whose wisdom did discuss THOMAS RANDOLPH, Born 1605, died 1634. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NYMPH AND A SHEPHERD. WHY sigh you, swain? this passion is not common; How fair is she that on so sage a brow Prints low ring looks?" Just such a toy as thou." Is she a maid?" What man can answer that?" Or widow?" No."-What then?" I know not what. Saint-like she looks; a syren if she sing; Her eyes are stars; her mind is every thing." |