For they have watch'd since first The world had birth, And found sin in itself accurst, And nothing permanent on earth. There is something to us particularly interesting in the history of this poet. Even as it is pleasant to see the sides of a volcano covered with verdure, and its mouth filled with flowers, so we like to find the fierce elements, which were inherited by Habington from his fathers, softened and subdued in him,--the blood of the conspirator mellowed into that of the gentle bard, who derived all his inspiration from a pure love and a mild and thoughtful religion. EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO THE HONOURABLE W.E. He who is good is happy. Let the loud Artillery of heaven break through a cloud, And dart its thunder at him, he'll remain Unmoved, and nobler comfort entertain, In welcoming the approach of death, than Vice E'er found in her fictitious paradise. Time mocks our youth, and (while we number past Delights, and raise our appetite to taste Ensuing) brings us to unflatter'd age, Where we are left to satisfy the rage Of threat'ning death: pomp, beauty, wealth, and all Our friendships, shrinking from the funeral. The thought of this begets that brave disdain With which thou view'st the world, and makes those vain Treasures of fancy, serious fools so court, And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport. What should we covet here? Why interpose A cloud 'twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature chose Man's soul the exchequer where to hoard her wealth, And lodge all her rich secrets; but by the stealth Of her own vanity, we're left so poor, The creature merely sensual knows more. The learned halcyon, by her wisdom, finds A gentle season, when the seas and winds Are silenced by a calm, and then brings forth The happy miracle of her rare birth, Leaving with wonder all our arts possess'd, That view the architecture of her nest. Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestow Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow By age to dotage; while the sensitive Part of the world in its first strength doth live. Folly! what dost thou in thy power contain Deserves our study? Merchants plough the main And bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more, By avarice in the possession poor. And yet that idol wealth we all admit Into the soul's great temple; busy wit Invents new orgies, fancy frames new rites To show its superstition; anxious nights Are watch'd to win its favour: while the beast Content with nature's courtesy doth rest. Let man then boast no more a soul, since he Hath lost that great prerogative. But thee, Whom fortune hath exempted from the herd Of vulgar men, whom virtue hath preferr'd Far higher than thy birth, I must commend, Rich in the purchase of so sweet a friend. And though my fate conducts me to the shade Of humble quiet, my ambition paid With safe content, while a pure virgin fame Doth raise me trophies in Castara's name; No thought of glory swelling me above The hope of being famed for virtuous love;