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
Shall now my joyful temples bind :
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale that held that lovely deer:
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! and yet there

Dwelt all that 's good, and all that's fair:
Give me but what this ribbon bound,

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;
For he'd prophane so chaste a fair
Who e'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 so
Are sweeter than i' the open field.

In those white cloisters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath,

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 tomb,

Whose breast hath marble been to me.

TO CASTARA.

Do not their prophane orgies hear,
Who but to wealth no altars rear:

The soul's oft pois'ned through the ear.

Castara, rather seek to dwell

I' th' silence of a private cell :
Rich discontent 's a glorious hell.

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

There shalt thou see the early spring,
That wealthy stock of nature bring,
Of which the Sybil's books did sing.

From fruitless palms shall honey flow,
And barren winter harvest show,
While lilies in his bosom grow.

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,
In hope to purchase leave to sip
Sweet nectar from a fairy's lip.

*The poet's residence.

The Nymphs with quivers shall adorn
Their active sides, and rouse the morn
With the shrill musick of their horn.

Wakened with which, and viewing thee,
Fair Daphne her fair self shall free
From the chaste prison of a tree,

And with Narcissus (to thy face
Who humbly will ascribe all grace)
Shall once again pursue the chase.

So they whose wisdom did discuss
Of these as fictions, shall in us
Find they were more than fabulous.

THOMAS RANDOLPH,

Born 1605, died 1634.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NYMPH AND A SHEPHERD.

WHY sigh you, swain? this passion is not common;
Is 't for your kids or lambkins?—"For a woman."

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."