Part 2

i. A CHARACTER. _The Holy Man._ 112 ii. TWENTY-TWO Poems, chiefly Sacred, with mottoes from the Vulgate. We have here given the equivalent passages in the Authorized version: inserting between [] the Douay version! where it more closely follows the Latin of the Vulgate. 116. _O Lord, open thou my lips._ Ps. li. 15. No monument of me remaine 115 117. _My harp also is turned to mourning._ Job xxx. 31. Love! I no orgies sing 116 118. _I will destroy the wisdom of the wise._ 1 Cor. i. 19. Forgive my envie to the World; while I 118 119. [_Declare unto me the fewnes of my days_, Douay]. _He shortened my days._ Ps. cii. 23. Tell me O great All knowing God 119 120. _Not unto us, O Lord._ Ps. cxv. 1. No marble statue, nor high 120 121. _The graves are ready for me._ Job xvii. 1. Welcome thou safe retreate! 121 122. _He fleeth also as a shadow._ Job xiv. 2. What shadow your faire body made 122 123. _Night unto night sheweth knowledge._ Ps. xix. 2. When I survay the bright 124 124. _But the proud he knoweth afar off._ Ps. cxxxviii. 6. To the cold humble hermitage 125 125. _Thou wilt make all his bed in his sickness._ Ps. xli. 3. My Soule! When thou and I 126 126. _Praise ye the Lord from the heavens._ Ps. cxlviii. 1. You Spirits! who have throwne away 127 127. _He cometh forth like a flower._ Job xiv. 2. Faire Madame: you 129 128. _Why boasteth thou thyself in mischief._ Ps. lii. 1. Swell no more, proud man, so high! 130 129. _My God, my God._ Ps. xxii. 1. There is that foole Philosophie 131 130. [_For I am ready for scourges_, Douay]. _For I am ready to halt._ Ps. xxxviii. 17. Fix me on some bleake precipice 133 131. [_The life of man upon earth is a warfare_, Douay]. _Is there not an appointed time to man upon earth._ Job vii. 1. Were it your appetite of glory, (which 134 132. _Shew me thy ways, O Lord._ Ps. xxv. 4. Where have I wandred? In what way 136 133. _And exalteth them of low degree._ Luke i. 52. How cheerefully th' unpartiall Sunne 138 134. _Lord of Lords._ Deut. x. 17. Supreame Divinity! Who yet 139 135. _I will be sorry for my sin._ Ps. xxxviii. 18. In what darke silent grove 140 136. _I shall go softly all my years._ Is. xxxviii. 15. Time! where didst thou those years inter 142 137. _Having a desire to depart._ Phil. i. 23. The soule which doth with God unite 143

II. _With other Works._

None.

(b) ISSUES SINCE THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.

I. _As a separate publication._

6. 14 April 1870. London. 1 vol. 8vo. _English Reprints_: see title at _p._ 1. This Edition follows No. 3 as to the arrangement of the Poems, &c.: but has been corrected with the earlier editions; when ever in spelling or punctuation the former were the better readings. In doubtful cases, the earlier variations are shown in footnotes.

5. [1812.] Bristol. 1 vol. 8vo. "Habington's _Castara_, with a preface and notes by CHARLES A. ELTON." [A reprint of No. 3.]

II. _With other Works._

4. London. 1810. 21 vols. 8vo. _The Works of the English Poets._ Ed. by A. CHALMERS, F.S.A. Vol. iv. 437-482 contains a Reprint of No. 3.

III. _Selections, &c._

One or more of these Poems will be found in the Selections of Ellis, H. Headley, _The Lyre of Love_, E. Sandford's _British Poets_, &c. &c.

CASTARA:

--_Carmina non prius Audita, Musarum facerdos Virginibus._--

The third Edition. Corrected and augmented

_LONDON_

Printed by _T. Cotes_, for _Will. Cooke_: and are to be sold at his Shop neere _Fernivals-Inne_ Gate in _Holburne_. 1640.

_The Author._

The Presse hath gathered into one, what fancie had scattered in many loose papers. To write this, love stole some houres from businesse, and my more serious study. For though Poetry may challenge if not priority, yet equality with the best Sciences, both for antiquity and worth; I never set so high a rate upon it, as to give my selfe entirely up to its devotion. It hath too much ayre, and (if without offence to our next transmarine neighbour,) [1]wantons too much according to the French garbe. And when it is wholly imployed in the soft straines of love, his soule who entertaines it, loseth much of that strength which should confirme him man. The nerves of judgement are weakned most by its dalliance, and when woman, (I meane onely as she is externally faire) is the supreme object of wit, we soone degenerate into effeminacy. For the religion of fancie declines into a mad superstition, when it[2] adores that Idoll which is not secure from age and sicknesse. Of such heathens, our times afford us a pittyed multitude, who can give no nobler testimony of twenty yeares imployment, then some loose coppies of lust happily exprest. Yet these the common people of wit blow up with their breath of praise, and honour with the Sacred name of Poets: To which as I beleeve they can never have any just claime, so shall I not dare by this essay to lay any title, since more sweate and oyle he must spend, who shall arrogate so excellent an attribute. Yet if the innocency of a chaste Muse shall bee more acceptable, and weigh heavier in the ballance of esteeme, than a fame, begot in adultery of study; I doubt I shall leave them no hope of competition. For how unhappie soever I may be in the elocution, I am sure the Theame is worthy enough. In all those flames in which I burnt I never felt a wanton heate, nor was my invention ever sinister from the straite way of chastity. And when love builds upon that rocke, it may safely contemne the battery of the waves, and threatnings of the wind. Since time, that makes a mockery of the firmest structures shall it selfe be ruinated, before that be demolisht. Thus was the foundation layd. And though my eye in its survey, was satisfi'd, even to curiosity, yet did not my search rest there. The Alabaster, Ivory, Porphir, Jet, that lent an admirable beauty to the outward building, entertained me with but a halfe pleasure, since they stood there onely to make sport for ruine. But when my soule grew acquainted with the owner of that mansion; I found that Oratory was dombe when it began to speak her, and wonder (which must necessarily seize the best at that time) a lethargie, that dulled too much the faculties of the minde, onely fit to busie themselves in discoursing her perfections, Wisdome, I encounter'd there, that could not spend it selfe since it affected silence, attentive onely to instructions, as if all her sences had beene contracted into hearing: Innocencie, so not vitiated by conversation with the world, that the subtile witted of her sex, would have tearm'd it ignorance: Wit, which seated it selfe most in the apprehension, and if not inforc't by good manners, would scarce have gain'd the name of affability: Modesty, so timorous, that it represented a besieg'd Citty, standing watchfully upon her guard, strongest in the loyalty to her Prince. In a word, all those vertues which should restore woman to her primitive state of beauty, fully adorn'd her. But I shall be censur'd, in labouring to come nigh the truth, guilty of an indiscreet Rhetoricke. However such I fancied her, for to say shee is, or was such, were to play the Merchant, and boast too much the value of a Jewell I possesse, but have no minde to part with. And though I appeare to strive against the streame of best wits, in erecting the selfe same Altar, both to chastity and love; I will for once adventure to doe well, without a president. Nor if my rigid friend question superciliously the setting forth of these Poems, will I excuse my selfe (though justly perhaps I might) that importunity prevail'd, and cleere judgements advis'd. This onely I dare say, that if they are not strangled with envie of the present, they may happily live in the not dislike of future times. For then partiality ceaseth, and vertue is without the idolatry of her clients, esteemed worthy honour. Nothing new is free from detraction, and when Princes alter customes even heavie to the subject, best ordinances are interpreted innovations. Had I slept in the silence of my acquaintance, and affected no study beyond that which the chase or field allowes, Poetry had then beene no scandall upon me, and the love of learning no suspition of ill husbandry. But what malice, begot in the Country upon ignorance, or in the City upon Criticisme, shall prepare against me, I am armed to endure. For as the face of vertue lookes faire without the adultery of Art, so fame needes no ayde from rumour to strengthen her selfe. If these lines want that courtship, (I will not say flattery) which insinuates it selfe into the favour of great men, best; they partake of my modesty. If Satyre to win applause with the envious multitude; they expresse my content, which maliceth none, the fruition of that, they esteeme happie. And if not too indulgent to what is my owne; I thinke even these verses will have that proportion in the worlds opinion, that heaven hath allotted me in fortune; not so high, as to be wondred at, nor so low as to be contemned.

[1] she wantons too much. 1635.

[2] she adores. 1635.

[3]To his best friend and Kinsman _William Habington_, Esquire.

_Not in the silence of content and store Of private sweets ought thy Muse charme no more Then thy_ Castara's _eare. 'Twere wrong such gold Should not like Mines, (poore nam'd to this) behold It selfe a publike joy. Who her restraine, Make a close prisoner of a Soveraigne. Inlarge her then to triumph. While we see Such worth in beauty, such desert in thee, Such mutuall flames betweene you both, as show How chastity, though yce, like love can glow, Yet stand a Virgin: How that full content By vertue is to soules united, lent, Which proves all wealth is poore, all honours are But empty titles, highest power but care, That quits not cost. Yet Heaven to Vertue kind, Hath given you plenty to suffice a minde That knowes but temper. For beyond your state May be a prouder, not a happier Fate. I Write not this in hope t'incroach on fame, Or adde a greater lustre to your name. Bright in it selfe enough. We two are knowne To th' World, as to our selves, to be but one In blood as study: And my carefull love Did never action worth my name, approve Which serv'd not thee. Nor did we ere contend, But who should be best patterne of a friend. Who read thee, praise thy fancie, and admire Thee burning with so high and pure a fire, As reaches heaven it selfe. But I who know Thy soule religious to her ends, where grow No sinnes by art or custome, boldly can Stile thee more than good Poet, a good man. Then let thy temples shake off vulgar bayes, Th' hast built an Altar which enshrines thy praise: And to the faith of after time commends Yee the best paire of lovers, us of friends._

[4]GEORGE TALBOT.

[3] _To his best friend and kinsman. On his_ CASTARA. 1634.

[4] G. T. 1634.

A Mistris

_Is the fairest treasure, the avarice of Love can covet; and the onely white, at which he shootes his arrowes, nor while his aime is noble, can he ever hit upon repentance. She is chaste, for the devill enters the Idoll and gives the Oracle, when wantonnesse possesseth beauty, and wit maintaines it lawfull. She is as faire as Nature intended her, helpt perhaps to a more pleasing grace by the sweetnesse of education, not by the flight of Art. She is young, for a woman past the delicacie of her spring, may well move by vertue to respect, never by beauty to affection. Shee is innocent even from the knowledge of sinne, for vice is too strong to be wrastled with, and gives her frailty the foyle. She is not proude, though the amorous youth interpret her modestie to that sence; but in her vertue weares so much Majestie, lust dares not rebell, nor though masqued, under the pretence of love, capitulate with her. She entertaines not every parley offer'd, although the Articles pretended to her advantage: advice and her own feares restraine her, and woman never owed ruine to too much caution. She glories not in the plurality of servants, a multitude of adorers heaven can onely challenge, and it is impietie in her weakenesse to desire superstition from many. She is deafe to the whispers of love, and even on the marriage houre can breake off, without the least suspition of scandall, to the former liberty of her carriage. She avoydes a too neere conversation with man, and like the Parthian overcomes by flight. Her language is not copious but apposit, and she had rather suffer the reproach of being dull company, than have the title of Witty, with that of Bold and Wanton. In her carriage she is sober, and thinkes her youth expresseth life enough, without the giddy motion, fashion of late hath taken up. She danceth to the best applause but doates not on the vanity of it, nor licenceth an irregular meeting to vaunt the levity of her skill. She sings, but not perpetually, for she knowes, silence in woman is the most perswading oratory. She never arriv'd to so much familiarity with man as to know the diminutive of his name, and call him by it; and she can show a competent favour: without yeelding her hand to his gripe. Shee never understood the language of a kisse, but at salutation, nor dares the Courtier use so much of his practised impudence as to offer the rape of it from her: because chastity hath writ it unlawfull, and her behaviour proclaimes it unwelcome. She is never sad, and yet not jiggish; her conscience is cleere from guilt, and that secures her from sorrow. She is not passionately in love with poetry, because it softens the heart too much to love; but she likes the harmony in the Composition; and the brave examples of vertue celebrated by it, she preposeth to her imitation. She is not vaine in the history of her gay kindred or acquaintance; since vertue is often tenant to a cottage, and familiarity with greatnesse (if worth be not transcendant above the title) is but a glorious servitude, fooles onely are willing to suffer. She is not ambitious to be prais'd, and yet vallues death beneath infamy. And Ile conclude, (though the next sinod of Ladies condemne this character as an heresie broacht by a Precision) that onely she who hath as great a share in vertue as in beauty, deserves a noble love to serve her, and a free Poesie to speake her._

_Fifty-seven Poems, chiefly on Love and Courtship._

_To_ CASTARA, _A Sacrifice_.

Let the chaste Phœnix from the flowry East, Bring the sweete treasure of her perfum'd nest, As incense to this Altar, where the name Of my _Castara's_ grav'd by th' hand of fame. Let purer Virgins, to redeeme the aire 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 faire desire Felt never warmth, but from a noble fire, Bring hither their bright flames: which here shall shine As Tapers fixt about _Castara's_ shrine. While I the Priest, my untam'd heart, surprise, And in this Temple mak't her sacrifice.

_To_ CASTARA, _Praying_.

I saw _Castara_ pray, and from the skie, A winged legion of bright Angels flie To catch her vowes, for feare her Virgin prayer Might chance to mingle with impurer aire. To vulgar eyes, the sacred truth I write, May seeme a fancie. But the Eagles sight Of Saints, and Poets, miracles oft view, Which to dull Heretikes appeare untrue. Faire zeale begets such wonders. O divine And purest beauty; let me thee enshrine In my devoted soule, and from thy praise, T' enrich my garland, pluck religious Bayes. Shine thou the starre by which my thoughts shall move, Best subject of my pen, Queene of my love.

_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.

_To_ CASTARA, _A Vow_.

By those chaste lamps which yeeld a silent light, To the cold Urnes of Virgins; By that night, Which guilty of no crime, doth onely heare The Vowes of recluse Nuns, and th' An'thrits prayer; And by thy chaster selfe; My fervent zeale Like mountaine yee, which the North winds congeale, To purest Christall, feeles no wanton fire. But as the humble Pilgrim, (whose desire Blest in Christs cottage, view by Angels hands, Transported from sad Bethlem,) wondring stands At the great miracle: So I at thee, Whose beauty is the shrine of chastity. Thus my bright Muse in a new orbe shall move, And even teach Religion how to love.

_To_ CASTARA, _Of his being in Love_.

Where am I? not in Heaven: for oh I feele The stone of _Sisiphus_, _Ixions_ wheele; And all those tortures, Poets (by their wine Made judges) laid on _Tantalus_, are mine. Not yet am I in hell; for still I stand, Though giddy in my passion, on firme land, And still behold the seasons of the yeare, Springs in my hope, and Winters in my feare. And sure I'me 'bove the earth: For th' highest star Shoots beames, but dim to what _Castara's_ are, And in her sight and favour I even shine In a bright orbe beyond the Christalline. If then _Castara_ I in Heaven nor move, Nor Earth, nor Hell; where am I but in Love?

_To my honoured Friend_, Mr. E. P.

Not still ith' shine of Kings. Thou dost retire Sometime to th' Holy shade, where the chaste quire Of Muses doth the stubborne Panther awe, And give the wildernesse of his nature law. The wind his chariot stops: Th' attentive rocke The rigor doth of its creation mocke, And gently melts away: _Argus_ to heare The musicke, turnes each eye into an eare. To welcome thee, _Endymion_, glorious they Triumph to force these creatures disobey What nature hath enacted. But no charme The Muses have these monsters can disarme Of their innated rage: No spell can tame The North-winds fury, but _Castara's_ name. Climbe yonder forked hill, and see if there Ith' barke of every Daphne, not appeare _Castara_ written; And so markt by me, How great a Prophet growes each Virgin tree? Lie downe, and listen what the sacred spring In her harmonious murmures, strives to sing To th' neighb'ring banke, ere her loose waters erre Through common channels; sings she not of her? Behold yond' violet, which such honour gaines, That growing but to emulate her veines, It's azur'd like the skie: when she doth bow T' invoke _Castara_, heav'n perfumes her vow. The trees the water, and the flowers adore The Deity of her sex, and through each pore Breath forth her glories. But unquiet love [5]To make thy passions so uncourtly prove, As if all eares should heare her praise alone. Now listen thou; _Endymion_ sings his owne.

[5] To make affection so ill-nurtur'd prove. 1634, 1635.

_To_ CASTARA.

Doe not their prophane Orgies heare, Who but to wealth no altars reare, The soule's oft poys'ned through the eare.

_Castara_ rather seeke to dwell Ith' silence of a private cell. Rich discontent's a glorious hell.

Yet _Hindlip_ doth not want extent Of roome (though not magnificent) To give free welcome to content.

There shalt thou see the earely Spring, That wealthy stocke of nature bring, Of which the Sybils bookes did sing.

From fruitlesse Palmes shall honey flow, And barren Winter Harvest show, While Lilies in his bosome grow,

No North-winde shall the corne infest, But the soft spirit of the East, Our sent with perfum'd banquets feast.

A Satyre here and there shall trip, In hope to purchase leave to sip Sweete Nectar from a Fairies lip.

The Nimphs with quivers shall adorne Their active sides, and rouse the morne With the shrill musicke of their horne.

Wakened with which, and viewing thee, Faire _Daphne_ her faire selfe shall free, From the chaste prison of a tree:

And with _Narcissus_ (to thy face Who humbly will ascribe all grace) Shall once againe pursue the chase.

So they, whose wisdome did discusse Of these as fictions: shall in us Finde, they were more then fabulous.

_To_ CASTARA, _Softly singing to her selfe_.

Sing forth sweete Cherubin (for we have choice Of reasons in thy beauty and the voyce, To name thee so, and scarce appeare prophane) Sing forth, that while the orbs celestiall straine To eccho thy sweete note, our humane eares May then receive the Musicke of the Spheares. But yet take heede, lest if the Swans of Thames, That adde harmonious pleasure to the streames, Oth' sudden heare thy well-divided breath, Should listen, and in silence welcome death: And ravisht Nightingales, striving too high To reach thee, in the emulation dye. And thus there will be left no bird to sing Farewell to th' Waters, welcome to the Spring.

_To a Wanton._

In vaine faire sorceresse, thy eyes speake charmes, In vaine thou mak'st loose circles with thy armes. I'me 'bove thy spels. No magicke him can move, In whom _Castara_ hath inspir'd her love. As she, keepe thou strict cent'nell o're thy eare, Lest it the whispers of soft Courtiers heare; Reade not his raptures, whose invention must Write journey worke, both for his Patrons lust, And his owne plush: let no admirer feast His eye oth' naked banquet of thy brest. If this faire president, nor yet my want Of love, to answer thine, make thee recant Thy sorc'ries; Pity shall to justice turne, And judge thee, witch, in thy owne flames to burne.

_To the Honourable my much honoured friend_, R. B. _Esquire_.