Ye blushing virgins happy are
In the chaste nunnery of her breasts—
For he'd profane so chaste a fair,
Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.
— William Habington
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The starres, bright sentinels of the skies.
Direct your eye right inward, and you'll find
A thousand regions in your mind
Yet undiscovered. Travel them, and be
Expert in home-cosmography.
Like the violet, which alone
Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown
To no looser eye betrayed.
Castara (1634)
When I survey the bright
Celestial sphere;
So rich with jewels hung, that Night
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear:
My soul her wings doth spread
And heavenward flies,
Th' Almighty's mysteries to read
In the large volumes of the skies.
I hate the countrie's dirt and manners, yet
I love the silence; I embrace the wit;
A courtship, flowing here in full tide.
But loathe the expense, the vanity and pride.
No place each way is happy.
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