WILLIAM HABINGTON 305 To Roses in the Bosom of C as tar a
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 yc 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.
30 6 Nox Nocti Indicat Scientiam
'HEN 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.
3"
�� �
