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The poems of William Habington

Edited with introduction and commentary by Kenneth Allott

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To the Honourable my much honoured friend, R. B. Esquire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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To the Honourable my much honoured friend, R. B. Esquire.

While you dare trust the loudest tongue of fame,
The zeale you beare your Mistresse to proclaim
To th' talking world: I in the silent'st grove,
Scarce to my selfe dare whisper that I love.
Thee, titles Brud'nell, riches thee adorne,
And vigorous youth to vice not headlong borne
By th' tide of custome: Which I value more
Then what blind superstitious fooles adore,
Who greatnesse in the chaire of blisse enthrone.
Greatnesse we borrow, Vertue is our owne.
In thy attempt be prosperous, and when ere
Thou shalt prefix the houre; May Hymen weare
His brightest robe; where some fam'd Persian shall
Worke by the wonder of her needle all
The nuptiall joyes; which (if we Poets be
True Prophets) bounteous heaven designes for thee.
I envie not, but glory in thy fate,
While in the narrow limits of my state

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I bound my hopes. Which if Castara daigne
Once to entitle hers; the wealthiest graine
My earth, untild shall beare; my trees shall grone
Vnder their fruitful burthen, and at one
And the same season, Nature forth shall bring
Riches of Autumne, pleasures of the Spring.
But digge, and thou shalt finde a purer Mine
Then th' Indians boast: Taste of this generous Vine,
And her blood sweeter will than Nectar prove.
Such miracles wait on a noble love.
But should she scorne my suite, I'le tread that path
Which none but some sad Fairy beaten hath.
There force wrong'd Philomel, hearing my mone,
To sigh my greater griefes, forget her owne.