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SHIRLEY.

DEATH's FINAL CONQUEST. THE glories of our birth and state

Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hands on kings.

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still.

Early or late,

They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds

; Upon death's purple altar now, See where the victor victim bleeds.

All heads must come
To the cold tomb

;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

HABINGTON.

TO THE SUN. THOU art return?d, great Light, to that blest hour

In which I first, by marriage' sacred power, Join'd with Castara hearts; and as the same Thy lustre is as then, so is our flame: Which had increas'd, but that by love's decree Twas such at first-it ne'er could greater be ! But tell me, glorious Lamp! in thy survey Of things below thee, what did not decay By age to weakness? I, since that, have seen The Rose bud forth and sade; the Tree grow green, And wither; and the beauty of the field With Winter wrinkled : even thyself dost yield Something to Time, and to the grave fall nigher: But Virtuous Love is one sweet, endless fire!

THE DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA.
L
IKE the violet, which alone

Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown,

To no looser eye betray'd ; For she's to herself untrue, Who delights i'th' public view. Such is her beauty, as no arts

Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace ;
Her high birth no pride imparts,

For she blushes in her place;
Folly boasts a glorious blood-
She is noblest, being good.
She her throne makes reason climb,

Whilst wild passions captive lie;
And, each article of time,

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly.
All her vows religious be,
And her love she vows to me.

TO CASTARA. GIVE me a heart, where no impure

Disorder'd passions rage;
Which jealousy doth not obscure,

Nor vanity t expence engage:
Nor woo'd to madness by quaint oaths,
Or the fine rhetoric of cloaths,

Which not the softness of the age
To vice or folly doth incline :
Give me that heart, Castarà, for 'tis thine.
Take thou a heart, where no new look

Provokes new appetite;
With no fresh charm of beauty took,

Or wanton stratagem of wit ;
Not idly wandering here and there,
Led by an amorous eye or ear,

Aiming each beauteous mark to hit;
Which virtue doth to one confine :
Take thou that heart, Castara, for 'tis mine.

SONG.
FINE young Folly, tho' you were

That fair beauty I did swear,
Yet you ne'er could touch my heart;
For we courtiers learn at school,
Only with your sex to fool-

You're not worth the serious part.
When I sigh and kiss your hand,
Cross my arms, and wond'ring stand,

Hoiding parley with your eye :
Then dilate on my desires,
Swear the sun ne'er shot such fires,

All is but a handsome lie,
When I eye your curl or lace,
Gentle soul; you think your face

Straight some murder doth commit;
And your virtue doth begin
To grow scrupulous of my sin,

When I talk to shew my wit.
Therefore, Madam, wear no cloud,
Nor to check my love grow proud,

For in sooth, I much do doubt
Tis the powder on your hair,
Not your breath, perfumes the air,

And your cloaths that set you out.
Yet though truth has this confess'd,
And I vow, I love in jest,

When I next begin to court, And protest an amorous flame, You will swear I in earnest am,

Bedlam ! this is pretty sport.

TO ROSES, IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA. YE, blushing Virgins! happy are

In the chaste nunnery of her breasts; For he'd profane so chaste a fair,

Who e'er should call them Cupid's nests! Transplanted thus, how bright ye grow!

How rich a perfume do ye yield! In some close garden, cowslips so

Are sweeter than in the open field. In those white cloysters live secure

From the rude blasts of wanton breath,
Each hour more innocent and pure,

Till you shall wither into death.
Then, that which living gave you room,

Your glorious sepulchre shall be;"
There wants no marble for a tomb,

Whose breast hath marble been to me!

RETIREMENT. Do not their prófane orgies hear,

Who but to wealth no altars rear; The soul's oft poison'd through the ear: Castara! rather seek to dwell In the silence of a private cell: Rich Discontent's a glorious hell! Yet, Hindlip doth not want extent Of room, though not magnificent, To give free welcome to content. There, shalt thou see the early Spring That wealthy stock of nature bring, Of which the Sybil's books did sing: From fruitless palms shall honey flow; And barren Winter harvest show, While lilies in his bosom grow : No north-wind shall the corn infest, But the soft spirit of the East Our scent with perfum'd banquets feast : A Satyr, here and there, shall trip In hope to purchase leave to sip Sweet nectar from a Fairy's lip: The Nymphs, with quivers shall adorn Their active sides; and rouse the morn With the shrill music of the horn : Waken'd with which, and viewing thee, Fair Daphné her fair self shall free From the chaste prison of a tree; And with Narcissus, (to thy face Who humbly will ascribe all grace) Shall once again pursue the chase. So they whose wisdom did discuss Of these as fictious, shall in us Find they were more than fabulous !

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