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between the 7th of November, 1619, the day of her coronation as Queen of Bohemia, and some time in 1624, when it was printed in "THE SIXT SET OF BOOKES," a musical publication by Michaell Est. I place it in 1620, before the fatal battle of Prague.

ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes,
More by your number than your light,
You common-people of the skies,
What are you when the sun shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents, what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own,
What are you when the rose is blown?

So when my mistress shall be seen,

In form, and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a queen,
Tell me, if she were not designed
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

THOMAS RANDOLPH.

1605-1634.

["Poems, with the Muses' Looking Glass." 1638.]

TO ONE ADMIRING HERSELF IN A LOOKING GLASS.

Fair lady, when you see the grace
Of beauty in your looking-glass;
A stately forehead, smooth and high,
And full of princely majesty;
A sparkling eye, no gem so fair,
Whose lustre dims the Cyprian star;
A glorious cheek, divinely sweet,
Wherein both roses kindly meet;
A cherry lip that would entice
Even gods to kiss at any price ;
You think no beauty is so rare
That with your shadow might compare;
That your reflection is alone

The thing that men most doat upon.
Madam, alas, your glass doth lie,
And you are much deceived; for I
A beauty know of richer grace,
(Sweet, be not angry,) 'tis your face.
Hence then, O learn more mild to be,
And leave to lay your blame on me,
If me your real substance move,
When you so much your shadow love.

Wise Nature would not let your eye
Look on her own bright majesty,
Which had you once but looked upon,
You could, except yourself, love none:
What then you can not love, let me,
That face I can, you can not see.

Now you have what to love, you'll say,
What is there left for me, I pray?
My face, sweet heart, if it please thee;
That which you can, I can not see:
So either love shall gain his due,
Yours sweet in me, and mine in you.

WILLIAM HABINGTON.

1605-1654.

CASTARA.

THE Castara of Habington's poetry was Lucia Herbert, the daughter of William Herbert, the first Lord Powis. By her mother's side she was related to the Percys of Northumberland, who traced their descent back to Charlemagne. Habington's family, though a good one, was not equal to hers, which may have been the reason why her father objected to him as a lover. For my Lord Powis did object, we learn, though Lady Eleanor, his wife, sympathized with the poet from the first. In a poetical epistle which he addressed to her ladyship, he compliments her on the clearness of her judgment of him, and proclaims the unselfishness of his love for her daughter :

"Would Castara were

The daughter of some mountaine cottager,
Who, with his toile worne out, could dying leave
Her no more dowre, than what she did receive
From bounteous nature. Her would I then lead
To th' temple, rich in her own wealth; her head
Crown'd with her haire's faire treasure; diamonds in
Her brighter eyes; soft ermines in her skin;
Each Indie in her cheeke. Then all who vaunt
That Fortune, them t' enrich, made others want,

Should set themselves out glorious in her stealth,
And trie if that could parallel this wealth."

He also addressed an epistle to Lord Powis, but it was after his marriage with Castara. "The holy lights," he says,

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The date of Habington's marriage is not mentioned, but from a note to one of his poems in the second part of "CASTARA,” which part, by the way, is christened The Wife, I should say it took place in or before 1630, his twenty-fifth year. Of his married life, indeed of his life generally, nothing is known, except that it was passed in retirement at the family manor in Hendlip. Devoted to his wife and his books, the contentions of the time swept by, and left him unharmed. In the words of Langbaine, "he was a gentleman who lived in the civil wars, and, slighting Bellona, gave himself entirely to the Muses." His poems were published in 1634.

TO CASTARA.

A SACRIFICE.

Let the chaste Phoenix, from the flowery East,
Bring the sweet treasure of her perfumed nest,
As incense to this altar, where the name
Of my Castara's graved by th' hand of Fame :
Let purer virgins, to redeem the air

From loose infection, bring their zealous prayer,
T'assist at this great feast, where they shall see,
What rites Love offers up to Chastity.
Let all the amorous youth, whose fair desire
Felt never warmth but from a noble fire,

Bring hither their bright flames, which here shall shine

As tapers fixed about Castara's shrine.

While I, the priest, my untamed heart surprise,

And in this temple make 't her sacrifice.

TO CASTARA.

INTENDING A JOURNEY INTO THE COUNTRY.

Why haste you hence, Castara? Can the Earth,
A glorious mother, in her flowery birth,
Show lilies like thy brow? Can she disclose

In emulation of thy cheeks, a rose,

Sweet as thy blush? Upon thyself then set
Just value, and scorn it thy counterfeit.

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