The poems of William Habington Edited with introduction and commentary by Kenneth Allott |
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Cogitabo pro peccato meo.
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 | The poems of William Habington |  |
145
Cogitabo pro peccato meo.
In what darke silent grove
Profan'd by no unholy love,
Where witty melancholy nere
Did carve the trees or wound the ayre,
Shall I religious leasure winne
To weepe away my sinne?
Profan'd by no unholy love,
Where witty melancholy nere
Did carve the trees or wound the ayre,
Shall I religious leasure winne
To weepe away my sinne?
How fondly have I spent
My youthes unvalued treasure, lent
To traffique for Cœlestiall joyes?
My unripe yeares pursuing toyes;
Iudging things best that were most gay
Fled unobserv'd away.
My youthes unvalued treasure, lent
To traffique for Cœlestiall joyes?
My unripe yeares pursuing toyes;
Iudging things best that were most gay
Fled unobserv'd away.
Growne elder I admired
Our Poets as from heaven inspired.
What Obeliskes decreed I fit
For Spencers Art, and Sydnyes wit?
But waxing sober soone I found
Fame but an Idle sound.
Our Poets as from heaven inspired.
What Obeliskes decreed I fit
For Spencers Art, and Sydnyes wit?
But waxing sober soone I found
Fame but an Idle sound.
Then I my blood obey'd
And each bright face an Idoll made:
Verse in an humble Sacrifice,
I offer'd to my Mistresse eyes.
But I no sooner grace did win
But met the devill within.
And each bright face an Idoll made:
Verse in an humble Sacrifice,
I offer'd to my Mistresse eyes.
But I no sooner grace did win
But met the devill within.
But growne more polliticke
I tooke account of each state tricke:
Observ'd each motion, judg'd him wise,
Who had a conscience fit to rise.
Whom soone I found but forme and rule
And the more serious foole.
I tooke account of each state tricke:
Observ'd each motion, judg'd him wise,
Who had a conscience fit to rise.
Whom soone I found but forme and rule
And the more serious foole.
146
But now my soule prepare
To ponder what and where we are:
How fraile is life, how vaine a breath
Opinion, how uncertaine death:
How onely a poore stone shall beare
Witnesse that once we were.
To ponder what and where we are:
How fraile is life, how vaine a breath
Opinion, how uncertaine death:
How onely a poore stone shall beare
Witnesse that once we were.
How a shrill Trumpet shall
Vs to the barre as traytors call.
Then shall we see too late that pride
Hath hope with flattery bely'd
And that the mighty in command
Pale Cowards there must stand.
Vs to the barre as traytors call.
Then shall we see too late that pride
Hath hope with flattery bely'd
And that the mighty in command
Pale Cowards there must stand.
| The poems of William Habington | |