 | The poems of William Habington |  |
To the honourable my honoured kinsman Mr. G. T.
Thrice hath the pale-fac'd Empresse of the night,Lent in her chaste increase her borrowed light,
To guide the vowing Marriner: since mute
Talbot th' ast beene, too slothfull to salute
Thy exil'd servant. Labour not t' excuse
This dull neglect: Love never wants a Muse.
When thunder summons from eternall sleepe
Th' imprison'd ghosts & spreads oth' frighted deepe
A veile of darknesse; penitent to be
I may forget, yet still remember thee,
Next to my faire, under whose eye-lids move,
In nimble measures beauty, wit, and love.
Nor thinke Castara (though the sexe be fraile,
And ever like uncertaine vessels saile
On th' ocean of their passions; while each wind,
Triumphs to see their more uncertaine mind,)
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May in its motion grow irregular;
The Sunne forget to yeeld his welcome flame
To th' teeming earth, yet she remaine the same.
And in my armes (if Poets may divine)
I once that world of beauty shall intwine,
And on her lips print volumes of my love,
Without a froward checke, and sweetly move
Ith' Labyrinth of delight. If not, Ile draw
Her picture on my heart, and gently thaw
With warmth of zeale, untill I heaven entreat,
To give true life to th' ayery counterfeit.
| The poems of William Habington | |