 | The poems of William Habington |  |
To CASTARA,
How happy, though in an obscure fortune.
Were we by fate throwne downe below our feare;Could we be poore? Or question Natures care
In our provision? She who doth afford
A feather'd garment fit for every bird,
And onely voyce enough t' expresse delight.
She who apparels Lillies in their white,
As if in that she'de teach mans duller sence,
Wh' are highest, should be so in innocence.
She who in damaske doth attire the Rose,
(And man t' himselfe a mockery to propose,
'Mong whom the humblest Iudges grow to sit)
She who in purple cloathes the Violet.
If thus she cares for things even voyd of sence;
Shall we suspect in us her providence?
| The poems of William Habington | |