DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA.

BY WILLIAM HABINGTON.

L

IKE the violet which, alone,

Prospers in some happy shade,

My Castara lives unknown,

To no looser eye betrayed,

For she's to herself untrue,

Who delights i' th' public view.

Such is her beauty, as no arts

Have enriched with borrowed grace;
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place.
Folly boasts a glorious blood,
She is noblest, being good.

Cautious, she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant;

Nor speaks loud, to boast her wit;

In her silence eloquent :

Of herself survey she takes,

But 'tween men no difference makes.

She obeys with speedy will

Her grave parents' wise commands;
And so innocent, that ill

She nor acts, nor understands:
Women's feet run still astray,
If once to ill they know the way.

She sails by that rock, the Court,
Where oft Honor splits her mast ;

And retiredness thinks the port,
Where her fame may anchor cast:
Virtue safely can not sit,

Where vice is enthroned for wit.

She holds that day's pleasure best,
Where sin waits not on delight;
Without masque, or ball, or feast,
Sweetly spends a winter's night:

O'er that darkness, whence is thrust
Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust.

She her throne makes reason climb,
While 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.

THE BRIDE.

FROM A BALLAD OF A WEDDING," BY SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

HE maid, and thereby hangs a tale,

TH

For such a maid no Whitsun ale

Could ever yet produce:

No grape that's kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on, which they did bring;
It was too wide a peck:

And, to say truth-for out it must-
It looked like the great collar-just-
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they feared the light :
But O! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison;

(Who sees them is undone ;)
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear,

The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly;

But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,

Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get:

But she so handled still the matter,

They came as good as ours, or better,

And are not spent a whit.

A

SONG.

BY RICHARD LOVELACE.

MARANTHA, sweet and fair,

Oh, braid no more that shining hair!

Let it fly, as unconfined,

As its calm ravisher, the wind;

Who hath left his darling, th' east,

To wanton o'er that spicy nest.
Every tress must be confest,
But neatly tangled, at the best;
Like a clew of golden thread
Most excellently ravelèd.

Do not, then, wind up that light

In ribbons, and o'ercloud in night,
Like the sun's in early ray;

But shake your head, and scatter day!

UPON COMBING THE HAIR.

BY LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY.

REAKING from under that thy cloudy veil,

BREA

Open and shine yet more, shine out more clear, Thou glorious, golden beam of darling hair, Even till my wonder-stricken senses fail.

Shine out in light, and shine those rays on far,

Thou much more fair than is the Queen of Love When she doth comb her on her sphere above, And from a planet turns a blazing star.

Nay, thou art greater, too-more destiny
Depends on thee than on her influence;

No hair thy fatal hand doth now dispense,
But to some one a thread of life must be.

While gracious unto me, thou both dost sunder
Those glories which, if they united were,

Might have amazèd sense, and shew'st each hair,
Which, if alone, had been too great a wonder.

But stay, methinks new beauties do arise,

While she withdraws these glories which were spread ;
Wonder of beauties, set thy radiant head,

And strike out day from thy yet fairer eyes.

Now

On thee, that art my paradise,

Thou art my all; my spring remains
In the fair violets of thy veins ;
And that you are my summer's day,
Ripe cherries in thy lips display.
And when for autumn I would seek,
'Tis in the apples of thy cheek.
But that which only moves my smart,
Is to see winter in thy heart.
Strange, when at once in one appear
All the four seasons of the year!

I'll clasp that neck, where should be set
A rich and orient carcanet,

But swains are poor; 'admit of, then,

More natural chains-the arms of men.