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The poems of William Habington

Edited with introduction and commentary by Kenneth Allott
Habington, William (1605-1654)

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CASTARA:
  
To his best friend and Kinsman William Habington, Esquire.
  
To CASTARA,
  
To CASTARA,
  
To Roses in the bosome of CASTARA.
  
To CASTARA,
  
To CASTARA,
  
To my honoured Friend, Mr. E. P.
  
To CASTARA.
  
To CASTARA,
  
To a Wanton.
  
To the Honourable my much honoured friend, R. B. Esquire.
  
To CASTARA,
  
To CASTARA,
  
To the right honourable the Countesse of Ar.
  
Vpon CASTARA'S frowne or smile.
  
In CASTARA,
  
Vpon thought CASTARA may dye.
  
Time to the moments, on sight of CASTARA.
  
To a friend inquiring her name, whom he loved.
  
A Dialogue betweene HOPE and FEARE.
  
To CVPID,
  
Vpon CVPID'S death and buriall in CASTARA'S cheeke.
  
To Fame.
  
A Dialogue betweene ARAPHILL and CASTARA.
  
To CASTARA,
  
Vpon CASTARA'S departure.
  
To CASTARA,
  
To CASTARA,
  
Vpon CASTARA'S absence.
  
To CASTARA,
  
To THAMES.
  
To the right honourable the Earle of SHREWES.
  
To CVPID.
  
To CASTARA.
  
To the Spring,
  
To Reason,
  
An answere to CASTARA'S question.
  
To CASTARA,
  
To the honourable my honoured kinsman Mr. G. T.
  
Eccho to Narcissus.
  
To CASTARA,
  
To Seymors,
  
To the Dew,
  
To CASTARA.
  
To CASTARA,
  
Vpon CASTARA'S departure.
  
A Dialogue betweene NIGHT and ARAPHIL.
  
To the Right Honourable, the Lady, E. P.
  
To CASTARA,
  
An Apparition.
  
To the Honourable Mr. Wm. E.
  
To CASTARA,
  
To my honoured Friend and Kinsman, R. St. Esquire
  
To the World.
  
To the Winter.
  
Vpon a visit to CASTARA in the Night.
  
To CASTARA. Of the chastity of his Love.
  
The Description Of CASTARA.
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CASTARA
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CASTARA:
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PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES AND SONGS FROM THE QUEENE OF ARRAGON 1640
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OTHER POEMS FROM PRINTED BOOKS
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DOUBTFUL POEMS

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12

To Roses in the bosome of CASTARA.

Yee blushing Virgins happie are
In the chaste Nunn'ry of her brests,
For hee'd prophane so chaste a faire,
Who ere should call them Cupids nests.
Transplanted thus how bright yee grow,
How rich a perfume doe yee yeeld?
In some close garden, Cowslips so
Are sweeter then ith' open field.
In those white Cloysters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath,
Each houre more innocent and pure,
Till you shall wither into death.
Then that which living gave you roome,
Your glorious sepulcher shall be.
There wants no marble for a tombe,
Whose brest hath marble beene to me.
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