 | The poems of William Habington |  |
To DEATH,
CASTARA being sicke.
Hence prophane grim man, nor dareTo approach so neere my faire.
Marble vaults, and gloomy caves,
Church-yards, Charnell houses, graves,
Where the living loath to be,
Heaven hath design'd to thee.
But if needs 'mongst us thou'lt rage,
Let thy fury feed on age.
Wrinckled browes, and withered thighs,
May supply thy sacrifice.
Yet perhaps as thou flew'st by,
A flamed dart shot from her eye,
Sing'd thy wings with wanton fire,
Whence th' art forc't to hover nigh her.
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Gently welcome in the flame:
They who loath'd thee, when they see
Where thou harbor'st will love thee.
Onely I, such is my fate,
Must thee as a rivall hate,
Court her gently, learne to prove
Nimble in the thefts of love.
Gaze on th' errors of her haire:
Touch her lip; but oh beware,
Lest too ravenous of thy blisse,
Thou shouldst murder with a kisse
| The poems of William Habington | |