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Poem by William Habington


To Roses in the Bosom of Castara


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.

Transplanted thus how bright ye grow!
   How rich a perfume do ye yield!
In some close garden cowslips so
   Are sweeter than i' th' open field.

In those white cloisters live secure
   From the rude blasts of wanton breath!--
Each hour more innocent and pure,
   Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you room,
   Your glorious sepulchre shall be.
There wants no marble for a tomb
   Whose breast hath marble been to me. 



William Habington


William Habington's other poems:
  1. Nox Nocti Indicat Scientiam


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