WILLIAM HABINGTON

QUI QUASI FLOS EGREDITUR

AIR MADAM! you

FA

May see what's man in yon bright rose :
Though it the wealth of Nature owes,

It is oppress'd and bends with dew.

Which shows, though Fate
May promise still to warm our lips,
And keep our eyes from an eclipse,
It will our pride with tears abate.

Poor silly flower!

Though on thy beauty thou presume,

And breath which doth the Spring perfume,
Thou mayst be cropp'd this very hour.

And though it may

Then thy good fortune be to rest

On the pillow of some Lady's breast,
Thou 'lt wither and be thrown away.

For 'tis thy doom,

However, that there shall appear
No memory that thou grew'st here,

Ere the tempestuous winter come.

But flesh is loath ̧

By meditation to foresee

How loathed a nothing it must be,—
Proud in the triumphs of its growth;

And tamely can

Behold this mighty world decay

And wear by the age of Time away,
Yet not discourse the fall of man.

But, Madam! these

Are thoughts to cure sick human pride;
And medicines are in vain applied

To bodies far 'bove all disease.

For you so live

As the Angels, in one perfect state :

Safe from the ruins of our fate

By virtue's great preservative.

And though we see

Beauty enough to warm each heart,
Yet you, by a chaste chemic art,
Calcine frail love to piety.

FIN

FINE YOUNG FOLLY

INE young Folly! though you were
That fair beauty I did swear,

Yet you ne'er could reach my heart: For we courtiers learn at school

Only with your sex to fool;

You're not worth the serious part.

When I sigh and kiss your hand,
Cross my arms and wondering stand,
Holding parley with your eye;
Then dilate on my desires,

Swear the sun ne'er shot such fires:
All is but a handsome lie.

When I eye your curl or lace,
Gentle Soul ! you think your face

Straight some murder doth commit;

And your virtue doth begin
To grow scrupulous of my sin,
When I talk to show my wit.

Therefore, Madam! wear no cloud,
Nor to check my love grow proud :
For in sooth I much do doubt
'Tis the powder in your hair,
Not your breath, perfumes the air;
And your clothes that set you out.

Yet, though truth has this confess'd,
And I vow I love in jest,

When I next begin to court
And protest an amorous flame
You will swear I earnest am:-

Bedlam! this is pretty sport.

THE PERFECTION OF LOVE

OU who are earth and can not rise

γου

Above your sense,

Boasting the envied wealth which lies
Bright in your Mistress' lips or eyes,
Betray a pitied eloquence.

That which doth join our souls so light
And quick doth move

That, like the eagle in his flight,
It doth transcend all human sight,
Lost in the element of love.

You poets reach not this who sing
The praise of dust,

But kneaded, when by theft you bring
The rose and lily from the Spring

To adorn the wrinkled face of Lust.

When we speak love, nor art nor wit
We gloss upon :

Our souls engender, and beget
Ideas, which you counterfeit

In your dull propagation.

While Time seven ages shall disperse
We'll talk of love;

And when our tongues hold no commerce
Our thoughts shall mutually converse,

And yet the blood no rebel prove.

And though we be of several kind,
Fit for offence,

Yet are we so by love refined

From impure dross, we are all mind:
Death could not more have conquer'd sense.

How suddenly those flames expire

Which scorch our clay !

Prometheus-like when we steal fire

From heaven, 'tis endless and entire ;
It may know age, but not decay.

SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE

L

OF BEAUTY

ET us use it while we may

Snatch those joys that haste away!

Earth her winter coat may cast,

And renew her beauty past:

But, our winter come, in vain

We solicit Spring again;

And when our furrows snow shall cover

Love may return, but never lover.