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 Of English Verse. 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 lines should long When architects have done their part, Time, if we use ill-chosen stone, Soon brings a well-built palace down. Poets, that lasting marble seek, Chaucer his sense can only boast, Years have defac'd his matchless strain, 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, Verse, thus design'd, has no ill fate, SONG. WHILE I listen to thy voice, Calls my flitting soul away. 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. WILLIAM HABINGTON Was born in 1605, of a Roman Catholic family, in Worcestershire, and educated at Paris and St Omer's. His literary accomplishments, and particularly his historical knowledge, recommended him to the favour of Charles I. at whose command he composed his "History of Edward IV." fol. 1640, in which, Wood says, his father, Thomas Habington, had a considerable hand. He also wrote "Observations upon History," 8vo. 1641 ; a tragi-comedy called "The Queene of Arragon," fol. 1640; and a small volume of love-poems under the title of" Castara;" (2d ed. 1635; 3d ed. corrected and augmented, 1640), remarkable for their unaffected tenderness and moral merit. These were addressed to Lucia, daughter of Lord Powis, whom he afterwards married. He died in 1654. SONG. [From "The Queene of Arragon."] FINE young folly, though you were Yet you ne'er could reach my heart; Only with your sex to fool; You're not worth the serious part. When I sigh and kiss your hand, Cross my arms, and wondering stand, Holding parley with your eye; Then dilate on my desires, Swear the sun neʼer shot such fires ;— All is but a handsome lie. When I eye your curl or lace, To grow scrupulous of my sin;— Therefore, Madam, wear no cloud, Yet though truth has this confess'd, When I next begin to court, Bedlam! this is pretty sport. |