William Habington
¶[1605-1654]
To ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA
¶YE blushing virgins happy areIn the chaste nunnery of her breasts—For he'd profane so chaste a fair,Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.
¶Transplanted thus how bright ye grow!How rich a perfume do ye yield!In some close garden cowslips soAre sweeter than i' th' open field.
¶In those white cloisters live secureFrom the rude blasts of wanton breathl—Each hour more innocent and pure,Till you shall wither into death.
¶Then that which living gave you room,Your glorious sepulchre shall be.There wants no marble for a tombWhose breast hath marble been to me.
Nox NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM
¶WHEN I survey the brightCelestial sphere;So rich with jewels hung, that NightDoth like an Ethiop bride appear:
¶My soul her wings doth spreadAnd heavenward flies,Th' Almighty's mysteries to readIn the large volume of the skies.[253]For the bright firmamentShoots forth no flameSo silent, but is eloquentIn speaking the Creator's name.
¶But if we steadfast lookWe shall discernIn it, as in some holy book,How man may heavenly knowledge learn.
¶It tells the conquerorThat far-stretch'd power,Which his proud dangers traffic for,Is but the triumph of an hour:
¶That from the farthest North,Some nation may,Yet undiscover'd, issue forth,And o'er his new-got conquest sway:
¶Some nation yet shut inWith hills of iceMay be let out to scourge his sin,Till they shall equal him in vice.
¶And then they likewise shallTheir ruin have;For as yourselves your empires fall,And every kingdom hath a grave.