Upon the autumn or the spring,

And spare us neither fruit nor flower; Winter would not stay an hour.

Could the resolve of love's neglect

Preserve you from the violation
Of coming years, then more respect

Were due to so divine a fashion;
Nor would I indulge my passion,


Poets may boast, as safely vain,
Their works shall with the world remain :
Both bound together, live or die,
The verses and the prophecy.

But who can hope his line should long
Last in a daily-changing tongue ?
While they are new, envy prevails,
And, as that dies, our language fails.

When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art:

Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.

Poets, that lasting marble seek,
Must carve in Latin or in Greek:
We write in sand; our language grows,
And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.

Chaucer his sense can only boast,
The glory of his numbers lost!
Years have defac'd his matchless strain,
And yet he did not sing in vain.

The beauties which adorn'd that age,
The shining subjects of his rage,
Hoping they should immortal prove,
Rewarded with success his love.

This was the generous poet's scope,
And all an English pen can hope,
To make the fair approve his flame,
That can so far extend their fame.

Verse, thus design'd, has no ill fate,
If it arrive but at the date
Of fading beauty; if it prove
But as long-liv'd as present love.


WHILE I listen to thy voice,

Chloris, I feel my life decay:
That powerful noise

Calls my fitting soul away.
Oh! suppress that magic sound,
Which destroys without a wound.

Peace, Chloris, peace! or singing die, That together you and I

To heaven may go ;

For all we know Of what the blessed do above, Is that they sing, and that they love.

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Was born in 1605, of a Roman Catholic family, and educated

at Paris and St. Omers. His literary accomplishments, and particularly his historical knowledge, recommended him to the favour of Charles I. at whose command he composed his “ Observations on History,” in one volume, svo, and a “ History of Edward IV.” in which, Wood says, his father, Thomas Habington, had a considerable hand. He also wrote a tragi-comedy called “ The Queen of “ Arragon,” 1640; and a small volume of poems under the title of “ Castara.” He died in 1654.



e young folly, though 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,

Holding 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.

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