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The poems of William Habington

Edited with introduction and commentary by Kenneth Allott

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Cupio dissolvi. Paule.
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Cupio dissolvi. Paule.

The soule which doth with God unite,
Those gayities how doth she slight
Which ore opinion sway?
Like sacred Virgin wax, which shines
On Altars or on Martyrs shrines
How doth she burne away?

148

How violent are her throwes till she
From envious earth delivered be,
Which doth her flight restraine?
How doth she doate on whips and rackes,
On fires and the so dreaded Axe,
And every murd'ring paine?
How soone she leaves the pride of wealth,
The flatteries of youth and health
And fames more precious breath.
And every gaudy circumstance
That doth the pompe of life advance
At the approach of death?
The cunning of Astrologers
Observes each motion of the starres
Placing all knowledge there:
And Lovers in their Mistresse eyes
Contract those wonders of the skies,
And seeke no higher sphere.
The wandring Pilot sweates to find
The causes that produce the wind
Still gazing on the Pole.
The Politician scornes all Art
But what doth pride and power impart,
And swells the ambitious soule.
But he whom heavenly fire doth warme,
And 'gainst these powerfull follies arme,
Doth soberly disdaine
All these fond humane misteries
As the deceitfull and unwise
Distempers of our braine.
He as a burden beares his clay,
Yet vainely throwes it not away
On every idle cause:
But with the same untroubled eye
Can or resolve to live or dye,
Regardlesse of th' applause.

149

My God! If 'tis thy great decree
That this must the last moment be
Wherein I breath this ayre;
My heart obeyes joy'd to retreate
From the false favours of the great
And treachery of the faire.
When thou shalt please this soule t' enthrowne,
Above impure corruption;
What should I grieve or feare,
To thinke this breathlesse body must
Become a loathsome heape of dust
And nere again appeare.
For in the fire when Ore is tryed;
And by that torment purified:
Doe we deplore the losse?
And when thou shalt my soule refine,
That it thereby may purer shine
Shall I grieve for the drosse?