UponCastara'sabsence.Tis madnesse to give Physicke to the dead;Then leave me friends: Yet haply you'd hereA lecture; but I'le not dissected be,T' instruct your Art by my anatomie.But still you trust your sense, sweare you discryNo difference in me. All's deceit oth' eye,Some spirit hath a body fram'd in th' ayre,Like mine, which he doth to delude you, weare:Else heaven by miracle makes me surviveMy selfe, to keepe in me poore Love alive.But I am dead, yet let none question whereMy best part rests, and with a sigh or teare,Prophane the Pompe, when they my corps interre,My souleimparadis'd, for 'tis with her.ToCastara,Complaining her absence in the Country.The lesser people of the ayre conspireTo keepe thee from me,Philomelwith higherAnd sweeter notes, wooes thee to weepe her rape,Which would appease the gods, and change her shape.The early Larke, preferring 'fore soft restObsequious duty, leaves his downy nest,And doth to thee harmonious tribute pay;Expecting from thy eyes the breake of day.From which the Owle is frighted, and doth rove(As never having felt the warmth of love.)In uncouth vaults, and the chill shades of night,Nor biding the bright lustre of thy sight.With him my fate agrees. Not viewing theeI'me lost in mists, at best, but meteors see.ToThames.Swift in thy watry chariot, courteousThames,Hast by the happy error of thy streames,To kisse the banks ofMarlow, which doth showFaireSeymors, and beyond that never flow.Then summon all thy Swans, that who did giveMusicke to death, may henceforth sing, and live,For myCastara. She can life restore,Or quicken them who had no life before.How should the Poplar else the Pine provoke;The stately Cedar challenge the rude OkeTo dance at sight of her? They have no senseFrom nature given, but by her influence.[10]IfOrpheusdid those senslesse creatures move,He was a Prophet, and fore-sang my love.[10]IfOrpheusdid those senslesse creatures stirre,He was a Prophet, and fore-sang of her. 1634, 1635.To the right honourable the Earle ofShrewes.[11]My Muse (great Lord) when last you heard her singDid to your Uncles Urne, her off'rings bring:And if to fame I may give faith, your earesDelighted in the musicke of her teares.That was her debt to vertue. And when e'reShe her bright head among the clouds shall reareAnd adde to th' wondring heavens a new flame,Shee'le celebrate the Genius of your name.Wilde with another rage, inspir'd by love,She charmes the Myrtles of the Idalian grove.And while she gives the Cyprian stormes a law,Those wanton Doves whichCythereiadrawThrough th' am'rous ayre: Admire what power doth swayThe Ocean, and arrest them in their way.She singsCastarathen. O she more bright,Than is the starry Senate of the night;Who in their motion did like straglers erre,Cause they deriv'd no influence from her,Who's constant as she's chaste. The Sinne hath beeneClad like a neighb'ring shepheard often seeneTo hunt those Dales, in hope thenDaphnes, thereTo see a brighter face. Th' AstrologerIn th' interim dyed, whose proud Art could not showWhence that Ecclipse did on the sudden grow.A wanton Satyre eager in the chaseOf some faire Nimph, beheldCastara'sface,And left his loose pursuite; who while he ey'd,Unchastely, such a beauty, glorifiedWith such a vertue; by heavens great commandsTurn'd marble, and there yet a Statute stands.As Poet thus. But as a Christian now,And by my zeale to you (my Lord) I vow,She doth a flame so pure and sacred move;In me impiety 'twere not to love.[11]To the Right Honourable my very good Lord,JohnEarle of S.1634, 1635.ToCupid.Wishing a speedy passage toCastara.ThankesCupid, but the Coach ofVenusmovesFor me too slow, drawn but by lazie Doves.I, left a journey my delay should finde,Will leape into the chariot of the winde.Swift as the flight of lightning through the ayre,Hee'le hurry me till I approach the faireBut unkindeSeymors. Thus he will proclaime,What tribute winds owe toCastara'sname.Viewing this prodigie, astonisht they,Who first accesse deny'd me, will obey,With feare what love commands: Yet censure meAs guilty of the blackest sorcery.But after to my wishes milder prove:When they know this the miracle of love.ToCastara.Of Love.How fancie mockes me? By th' effect I prove,'Twas am'rous folly, wings ascrib'd to love,And ore th' obedient elements command.Hee's lame as he is blinde, for here I standFixt as the earth. Throw then this Idoll downeYee lovers who first made it; which can frowneOr smile but as you please. But I'me untameIn rage.Castaracall thou[12]on his name,And though hee'le not beare up my vowes to thee,Hee'le triumph to bring downe my Saint to me.[12]then. 1634.To theSpring,Upon the uncertainty ofCastara'sabode.Faire Mistresse of[13]the earth, with garlands crown'dRise, by a lovers charme, from the parcht ground,And shew thy flowry wealth: that she, where ereHer starres shall guide her, meete thy beauties there.Should she to the cold Northerne climates goe,Force thy affrighted Lillies there to grow;Thy Roses in those gelid fields t' appeare;She absent, I have all their Winter here.Or if to the torrid Zone her way she bend,Her the coole breathing ofFavoniuslend,Thither command the birds to bring their quires.That Zone is temp'rate. I have all his fires.Attend her, courteous Spring, though we should hereLose by it all the treasures of the yeere.[13]to. 1634, 1635.ToReason,UponCastara'sabsence.With your calme precepts goe, and lay a storme,In some brest flegmaticke which would conformeHer life to your cold lawes: In vain y' engageYour selfe on me. I will obey my rage.Shee's gone, and I am lost. Some unknowne groveI'le finde, whereby the miracle of LoveI'le turne t' a fountaine, and divide the yeere,By numbring every moment with a teare.Where ifCastara(to avoyd the beamesOth' neighb'ring Sun) shall wandring meete my streames.And tasting, hope her thirst alaid shall be,Shee'le feele a sudden flame, and burne like me:And thus distracted cry. Tell me thou cleere,But treach'rous Fount, what lover's coffin'd here?An[14]answere toCastara'squestion.T'is ICastara, who when thou wert gone,Did freeze into this melancholy stone,To weepe the minutes of thy absence. WhereCan greefe have freer scope to mourne than here?The Larke here practiseth a sweeter straine,Aurora'searly blush to entertaine,And having too deepe tasted of these streames,He loves, and amorously courts her beames.The courteous turtle with a wandring zeale,Saw how to stone I did my selfe congeale,And murm'ring askt what power this change did move,The language of my waters whispered, Love.And thus transform'd Ile stand, till I shall see,That heart so ston'd and frozen, thaw'd in thee.[14]In.1634.ToCastara,Upon the disguising his affection.Pronounce me guilty of a Blacker crime,Then e're in the large Volume writ by Time.The sad Historian reades, if not my ArtDissembles love, to veile an am'rous heart.For when the zealous anger of my friendCheckes my unusuall sadnesse: I pretendTo study vertue, which indeede I doe,He must court vertue who aspires to you.Or that some friend is dead and then a teare,A sigh or groane steales from me: for I feareLest death with love hath strooke my heart, and allThese sorrowes usher but its funerall.[15]Which should revive, should there you a mourner be,And force a nuptiall in an obsequie.[15]Which would revive, should you there mourner be. 1634, 1635.To the honourable my honoured kinsman, Mr. G. T.Thrice hath the pale-fac'd Empresse of the night,Lent in her chaste increase her borrowed light,To guide the vowing Mariner: since muteTalbotth'ast beene, too slothfull to saluteThy exil'd servant. Labour not t' excuseThis dull neglect: Love never wants a Muse.When thunder summons from eternall sleepeTh' imprison'd ghosts, and spreads oth' frighted deepe,A veile of darknesse; penitent to beI may forget, yet still remember thee,Next to my faire, under whose eye-lids move,In nimble measures beauty, wit, and love.Nor thinkeCastara(though the sexe be fraile,And ever like uncertaine vessels saileOn th' ocean of their passions; while each windTriumphs to see their more uncertaine mind,)Can be induc't to alter: Every starreMay in its motion grow irregular;The Sunne forget to yeeld his welcome flameTo th' teeming earth, yet she remaine the same.And in my armes (if Poets may divine)I once that world of beauty shall intwine,And on her lips print volumes of my love,Without a froward checke, and sweetly moveIth' Labyrinth of delight. If not, Ile drawHer picture on my heart, and gently thawWith warmth of zeale, untill I heaven entreat,To give true life to th' ayery counterfeit.EcchotoNarcissus.In praise ofCastara'sdiscreete Love.Scorn'd in thy watry UrneNarcissuslye,Thou shalt not force more tribute from my eyeT' increase thy streames: or make me weepe a showre,To adde fresh beauty to thee, now a flowre.But should relenting heaven restore thee sence,To see such wisedome temper innocence,In faireCastara'slove; how she discreet,Makes caution with a noble freedome meete,At the same moment; thould'st confesse fond boy,Fooles onely think them vertuous, who are coy.And wonder not that I, who have no choyceOf speech, have praysing her so free a voyce:Heaven her severest sentence doth repeale,When toCastaraI would speake my zeale.ToCastara,Being debarr'd her presence.Banisht from you, I charg'd the nimble winde,My unseene Messenger, to speake my minde,In am'rous whispers to you. But my MuseLest the unruly spirit should abuseThe trust repos'd in him, sayd it was dueTo her alone, to sing my loves to you.Heare her then speake. Bright Lady, from whose eyeShot lightning to his heart, who joyes to dyeA martyr in your flames: O let your loveBe great and firme as his: Then nought shall moveYour setled faiths, that both may grow together:Or if by Fate divided, both may wither.Hark! 'twas a groane. Ah how sad absence rendsHis troubled thoughts! See, he fromMarlowsendsHis eyes toSeymors. Then chides th' envious trees,And unkinde distance. Yet his fancie seesAnd courts your beauty, joyes as he had cleav'dClose to you, and then weepes because deceiv'd.Be constant as y'are faire. For I fore-seeA glorious triumph waits o'th victorieYour love will purchase, shewing us to prizeA true content. There onely Love hath eyes.ToSeymors,The house in whichCastaralived.Blest Temple, haile, where the Chast Altar stands,Which Nature built, but the exacter handsOf Vertue polisht. Though sad Fate denyMy prophane feete accesse, my vowes shall flye.May those Musitians, which divide the ayreWith their harmonious breath, their flight prepare,For this glad place, and all their accents frame,To teach the Eccho myCastara'sname.The beautious troopes of graces led by loveIn chaste attempts, possesse the neighb'ring groveWhere may the Spring dwell still. May every treeTurne to a Laurell, and propheticke be.Which shall in its first Oracle divine,That courteous Fate decreeCastaramine.To theDew,In hope to seeCastarawalking.Bright Dew which dost the field adorneAs th' earth to welcome in the morne,Would hang a jewell on each corne.Did not the pittious night, whose earesHave oft beene conscious of my fearesDistill you from her eyes as teares?Or thatCastarafor your zeale,When she her beauties shall reveale,Might you to Dyamonds congeale?If not your pity, yet how ereYour care I praise, 'gainst she appeare,To make the wealthy Indies here.But see she comes. Bright lampe oth' skie,Put out thy light: the world shall spie,A fairer Sunne in either eye.And liquid Pearle, hang heavie nowOn every grasse that it may bowIn veneration of her brow.Yet if the wind should curious be,And were I here, should question thee,Hee's full of whispers, speak not me.But if the busie tell-tale day,Our happy enterview betray;Lest thou confesse too, melt away.ToCastara.Stay under the kinde shadow of this treeCastara, and protect thy selfe and meFrom the Sunnes rayes. Which shew the grace of Kings,A dangerous warmth with too much favour brings.How happy in this shade the humble VineDoth 'bout some taller tree her selfe intwine,And so growes fruitefull; teaching us her fateDoth beare more sweetes, though Cedars beare more state:BeholdAdonisin yand' purple flowre,T'wasVenuslove: That dew, the briny showre,His coynesse wept, while strugling yet alive:Now he repents, and gladly would revive,By th' vertue of your chaste and powerfull charmes,To play the modest wanton in your armes.ToCastara,Ventring to walke too farre in the neighbouring wood.Dare not too farreCastara, for the shadeThis courteous thicket yeelds, hath man betray'dA prey to wolves: to the wilde powers oth' wood,Oft travellers pay tribute with their blood.If carelesse of thy selfe of me take care,For like a ship where all the fortunes areOf an advent'rous merchant; I must be,If thou should'st perish banquerout in thee.My feares have mockt me. Tygers when they shallBehold so bright a face, will humbly fallIn adoration of thee. Fierce they areTo the deform'd, obsequious to the faire.Yet venter not; tis nobler farre to swayThe heart of man, than beasts, who man obey.UponCastara'sdeparture.Vowes are vaine. No suppliant breathStayes the speed of swift-heel'd death.Life with her is gone and ILearne but a new way to dye.See the flowers condole, and allWither in my funerall.The bright Lilly, as if day,Parted with her, fades away.Violets hang their heads, and loseAll their beauty. That the RoseA sad part in sorrow beares,Witnesse all those dewy teares,Which as Pearle, or Dyamond like,Swell upon her blushing cheeke.All things mourne, but oh beholdHow the wither'd MarigoldCloseth up now she is gone,Judging her the setting Sunne.A Dialogue betweenNightandAraphill.Night.Let silence close my troubled eyes,Thy feare inLethesteepe:The starres bright cent'nels of the skies,Watch to secure thy sleepe.Araph.The Norths unruly spirit layIn the disorder'd Seas:Make the rude Winter calme asMay,And give a lover ease.Night.Yet why should feare with her pale charmes,Bewitch thee so to griefe?Since it prevents n' insuing harmes,Nor yeelds the past reliefe.Araph.And yet such horror I sustaineAs the sad vessell, whenRough tempests have incenst the Maine,Her Harbor now in ken.Night.No conquest weares a glorious wreathWhich dangers not obtaine:Let tempests 'gainst thee shipwracke breathe,Thou shalt thy harbour gaine.Araph.TruthsDelphosdoth not still foretell,ThoughSolth' inspirer be.How then should night as blind as hell,Ensuing truths fore-see?Night.The Sunne yeelds man no constant flame.One light those Priests inspires.While I though blacke am still the same,And have ten thousand fires.Araph.But those, sayes my propheticke feare,As funerall torches burne;While thou thy selfe the blackes dost weare,T' attend me to my Urne.Night.Thy feares abuse thee, for those lightsInHymensChurch shall shine,When he by th' mystery of his rites,Shall makeCastarathine.To the Right Honourable,the Lady, E. P.Your judgement's cleere, not wrinckled with the Time,On th' humble fate: which censures it a crime,To be by vertue ruin'd. For I knowY'are not so various as to ebbe and flowIth' streame of fortune, whom each faithlesse windeDistracts, and they who made her, fram'd her blinde.Possession makes us poore. Should we obtaineAll those bright jems, for which ith' wealthy Maine,The tann'd slave dives; or in one boundlesse chestImprison all the treasures of the West,We still should want. Our better part's immence,Not like th' inferiour, limited by sence.Rich with a little, mutuall love can liftUs to a greatnesse, whether chance or thriftE're rais'd her servants. For though all were spent,That can create anEuropein content.Thus (Madam) whenCastaralends an eareSoft to my hope, I Loves Philosopher,Winne on her faith. For when I wondring standAt th' intermingled beauty of her hand,(Higher I dare not gaze) to this bright veineI not ascribe the blood ofCharlemaineDeriv'd by you to her. Or say there areIn that and th'otherMarmion,Rosse, andParrFitzhugh,Saint Quintin, and the rest of themThat adde such lustre to greatPembrokesstem.My love is envious. WouldCastarawereThe daughter of some mountaine cottager,Who with his toile worne out, could dying leaveHer no more dowre, than what she did receiveFrom bounteous nature. Her would I then leadTo th' Temple, rich in her owne wealth; her headCrown'd with her haires faire treasure; diamonds inHer brighter eyes; soft Ermines in her skin;Each Indie in each cheeke. Then all who vaunt,That fortune, them t' enrich, made others want,Should set themselves out glorious in her stealth,And trie if that, could parallel this wealth.ToCastara.Departing upon the approach of Night.What should we feareCastara? The coole aire,That's falne in love, and wanton in thy haire,Will not betray our whispers. Should I stealeA Nectar'd kisse, the wind dares not revealeThe pleasure I possesse. The wind conspiresTo our blest interview, and in our firesBath's like a Salamander, and doth sip,LikeBacchusfrom the grape, life from thy lip.Nor thinke of nights approach. The worlds great eyeThough breaking Natures law, will us supplyWith his still flaming lampe: and to obeyOur chaste desires, fix here perpetuall day.But should he set, what rebell night dares rise,To be subdu'd ith' vict'ry of thy eyes?An Apparition.More welcome myCastara, then was lightTo the disordered Chaos. O what brightAnd nimble chariot brought thee through the aire?While the amazed stars to see so faireAnd pure a beauty from the earth arise,Chang'd all their glorious bodies into eyes.O let my zealous lip print on thy handThe story of my love, which there shall standA bright inscription to be read by none,But who as I love thee, and love but one.Why vanish you away? Or is my senseDeluded by my hope? O sweete offenceOf erring nature! And would heaven this hadBeene true; or that I thus were ever mad.[16]To the Honourable Mr.Wm. E.Hee who is good is happy. Let the loudeArtillery of Heaven breake through a cloudeAnd dart its thunder at him; hee'le remaineUnmov'd, and nobler comfort entertaineIn welcomming th' approach of death; then viceEre found in her fictitious Paradise.Time mocks our youth, and (while we number pastDelights, and raise our appetite to tasteEnsuing) brings us to unflattered age.Where we are left to satisfie the rageOf threatning Death: Pompe, beauty, wealth, and allOur friendships, shrinking from the funerall.The thought of this begets that brave disdaineWith which thou view'st the world and makes those vaineTreasures of fancy, serious fooles so court,And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.What should we covet here? Why interposeA cloud twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature choseMans soule th' Exchecquer where she'd hoord her wealth,And lodge all her rich secrets; but by th' stealthOf our owne vanity, w'are left so poore,The creature meerely sensuall knowes more.The learn'dHalcyonby her wisedome findsA gentle season, when the seas and windsAre silenc't by a calme, and then brings forthThe happy miracle of her rare birth,Leaving with wonder all our arts possest,That view the architecture of her nest.Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestoweIncrease of knowledge on old minds, which growBy age to dotage: while the sensitivePart of the World in it's first strength doth live.Folly? what dost thou in thy power containeDeserves our study? Merchants plough the maineAnd bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more,By avarice in the possession poore.And yet that Idoll wealth we all admitInto the soules great temple. Busie witInvents new Orgies, fancy frames new ritesTo show it's superstition, anxious nightsAre watcht to win its favour: while the beastContent with Natures courtesie doth rest.Let man then boast no more a soule, since heHath lost that great prerogative. But thee(Whom Fortune hath exempted from the heardOf vulgar men, whom vertue hath prefer'dFarre higher than thy birth) I must commend,Rich in the purchase of so sweete a friend.And though my fate conducts me to the shadeOf humble quiet, my ambition paydeWith safe content, while a pure Virgin fameDoth raise me trophies inCastara'sname.No thought of glory swelling me aboveThe hope of being famed for vertuous love.Yet wish I thee, guided by the better starresTo purchase unsafe honour in the warresOr envied smiles at court; for thy great race,And merits, well may challenge th' highest place.Yet know, what busie path so-ere you treadTo greatnesse, you must sleepe among the dead.[16]To the Honourable my most honoured friend, Wm. E.Esquire. 1635.ToCastara,The vanity of Avarice.Harke? how the traytor wind doth courtThe Saylors to the maine;To make their avarice his sport?A tempest checks the fond disdaine,They beare a safe though humble port.Wee'le sit my love upon the shore,And while proud billowes riseTo warre against the skie, speake oreOur Loves so sacred misteries.And charme the Sea to th' calme it had before.Where's now my pride t' extend my fameWhere ever statues are?And purchase glory to my nameIn the smooth court or rugged warre?My love hath layd the Devill, I am tame.I'de rather like the violet growUnmarkt i'th shaded vale,Then on the hill those terrors knowAre breath'd forth by an angry gale,There is more pompe above, more sweete below.Love, thou divine Philosopher(While covetous Landlords rent,And Courtiers dignity preferre)Instructs us to a sweete content,Greatnesse it selfe, doth in it selfe interre.Castara, what is there aboveThe treasures we possesse?We two are all and one, wee moveLike starres in th' orbe of happinesse.All blessings are Epitomiz'd in Love.To my most honoured Friend and Kinsman, R. St.,Esquire.It shall not grieve me (friend) though what I writeBe held no wit at Court. If I delightSo farre my sullen Genius, as to raiseIt pleasure; I have money, wine, and bayesEnough to crowne me Poet. Let those wits,Who teach their Muse the art of ParasitsTo win on easie greatnesse; or the yongueSpruce Lawyer who's all impudence and tongueSweat to divulge their fames: thereby the oneGets fees; the other hyre, I'me best unknowne:Sweet silence I embrace thee, and thee FateWhich didst my birth so wisely moderate;That I by want am neither vilified,Nor yet by riches flatter'd into pride.Resolve me friend (for it must folly beOr else revenge 'gainst niggard Destinie,That makes some Poets raile?) Why are their timesSo steept in gall? Why so obrayde the times?As if no sin call'd downe heav'ns vengeance moreThen cause the world leaves some few writers poore?Tis true, thatChapmansreverend ashes mustLye rudely mingled with the vulgar dust,Cause carefull heyers the wealthy onely have;To build a glorious trouble o're the grave.Yet doe I not despaire, some one may beSo seriously devout to PoesieAs to translate his reliques, and finde roomeIn the warme Church, to build him up a tombe.SinceSpencerhath a Stone; andDraytonsbrowesStand petrified ith' wall, with Laurell bowesYet girt about; and nigh wiseHenriesherse,OldChaucergot a Marble for his verse.So courteous is Death; Death Poets bringsSo high a pompe, to lodge them with their Kings:Yet still they mutiny. If this man pleaseHis silly Patron with Hyperboles.Or most mysterious non-sence, give his braineBut the strapado in some wanton straine;Hee'le sweare the State lookes not on men of partsAnd, if but mention'd, slight all other Arts.Vaine ostentation! Let us set so justA rate on knowledge, that the world may trustThe Poets Sentence, and not still averEach Art is to it selfe a flatterer.I write to you Sir on this theame, becauseYour soule is cleare, and you observe the lawes,Of Poesie so justly, that I chuseYours onely the example to my muse.And till my browner haire be mixt with grayWithout a blush, Ile tread the sportive way,My Muse direct; A Poet youth may be,But age doth dote withoutPhilosophie.
UponCastara'sabsence.Tis madnesse to give Physicke to the dead;Then leave me friends: Yet haply you'd hereA lecture; but I'le not dissected be,T' instruct your Art by my anatomie.But still you trust your sense, sweare you discryNo difference in me. All's deceit oth' eye,Some spirit hath a body fram'd in th' ayre,Like mine, which he doth to delude you, weare:Else heaven by miracle makes me surviveMy selfe, to keepe in me poore Love alive.But I am dead, yet let none question whereMy best part rests, and with a sigh or teare,Prophane the Pompe, when they my corps interre,My souleimparadis'd, for 'tis with her.
UponCastara'sabsence.Tis madnesse to give Physicke to the dead;Then leave me friends: Yet haply you'd hereA lecture; but I'le not dissected be,T' instruct your Art by my anatomie.But still you trust your sense, sweare you discryNo difference in me. All's deceit oth' eye,Some spirit hath a body fram'd in th' ayre,Like mine, which he doth to delude you, weare:Else heaven by miracle makes me surviveMy selfe, to keepe in me poore Love alive.But I am dead, yet let none question whereMy best part rests, and with a sigh or teare,Prophane the Pompe, when they my corps interre,My souleimparadis'd, for 'tis with her.
Tis madnesse to give Physicke to the dead;Then leave me friends: Yet haply you'd hereA lecture; but I'le not dissected be,T' instruct your Art by my anatomie.But still you trust your sense, sweare you discryNo difference in me. All's deceit oth' eye,Some spirit hath a body fram'd in th' ayre,Like mine, which he doth to delude you, weare:Else heaven by miracle makes me surviveMy selfe, to keepe in me poore Love alive.But I am dead, yet let none question whereMy best part rests, and with a sigh or teare,Prophane the Pompe, when they my corps interre,My souleimparadis'd, for 'tis with her.
Tis madnesse to give Physicke to the dead;
Then leave me friends: Yet haply you'd here
A lecture; but I'le not dissected be,
T' instruct your Art by my anatomie.
But still you trust your sense, sweare you discry
No difference in me. All's deceit oth' eye,
Some spirit hath a body fram'd in th' ayre,
Like mine, which he doth to delude you, weare:
Else heaven by miracle makes me survive
My selfe, to keepe in me poore Love alive.
But I am dead, yet let none question where
My best part rests, and with a sigh or teare,
Prophane the Pompe, when they my corps interre,
My souleimparadis'd, for 'tis with her.
ToCastara,Complaining her absence in the Country.The lesser people of the ayre conspireTo keepe thee from me,Philomelwith higherAnd sweeter notes, wooes thee to weepe her rape,Which would appease the gods, and change her shape.The early Larke, preferring 'fore soft restObsequious duty, leaves his downy nest,And doth to thee harmonious tribute pay;Expecting from thy eyes the breake of day.From which the Owle is frighted, and doth rove(As never having felt the warmth of love.)In uncouth vaults, and the chill shades of night,Nor biding the bright lustre of thy sight.With him my fate agrees. Not viewing theeI'me lost in mists, at best, but meteors see.
ToCastara,Complaining her absence in the Country.The lesser people of the ayre conspireTo keepe thee from me,Philomelwith higherAnd sweeter notes, wooes thee to weepe her rape,Which would appease the gods, and change her shape.The early Larke, preferring 'fore soft restObsequious duty, leaves his downy nest,And doth to thee harmonious tribute pay;Expecting from thy eyes the breake of day.From which the Owle is frighted, and doth rove(As never having felt the warmth of love.)In uncouth vaults, and the chill shades of night,Nor biding the bright lustre of thy sight.With him my fate agrees. Not viewing theeI'me lost in mists, at best, but meteors see.
The lesser people of the ayre conspireTo keepe thee from me,Philomelwith higherAnd sweeter notes, wooes thee to weepe her rape,Which would appease the gods, and change her shape.The early Larke, preferring 'fore soft restObsequious duty, leaves his downy nest,And doth to thee harmonious tribute pay;Expecting from thy eyes the breake of day.From which the Owle is frighted, and doth rove(As never having felt the warmth of love.)In uncouth vaults, and the chill shades of night,Nor biding the bright lustre of thy sight.With him my fate agrees. Not viewing theeI'me lost in mists, at best, but meteors see.
The lesser people of the ayre conspire
To keepe thee from me,Philomelwith higher
And sweeter notes, wooes thee to weepe her rape,
Which would appease the gods, and change her shape.
The early Larke, preferring 'fore soft rest
Obsequious duty, leaves his downy nest,
And doth to thee harmonious tribute pay;
Expecting from thy eyes the breake of day.
From which the Owle is frighted, and doth rove
(As never having felt the warmth of love.)
In uncouth vaults, and the chill shades of night,
Nor biding the bright lustre of thy sight.
With him my fate agrees. Not viewing thee
I'me lost in mists, at best, but meteors see.
ToThames.Swift in thy watry chariot, courteousThames,Hast by the happy error of thy streames,To kisse the banks ofMarlow, which doth showFaireSeymors, and beyond that never flow.Then summon all thy Swans, that who did giveMusicke to death, may henceforth sing, and live,For myCastara. She can life restore,Or quicken them who had no life before.How should the Poplar else the Pine provoke;The stately Cedar challenge the rude OkeTo dance at sight of her? They have no senseFrom nature given, but by her influence.[10]IfOrpheusdid those senslesse creatures move,He was a Prophet, and fore-sang my love.[10]IfOrpheusdid those senslesse creatures stirre,He was a Prophet, and fore-sang of her. 1634, 1635.
ToThames.Swift in thy watry chariot, courteousThames,Hast by the happy error of thy streames,To kisse the banks ofMarlow, which doth showFaireSeymors, and beyond that never flow.Then summon all thy Swans, that who did giveMusicke to death, may henceforth sing, and live,For myCastara. She can life restore,Or quicken them who had no life before.How should the Poplar else the Pine provoke;The stately Cedar challenge the rude OkeTo dance at sight of her? They have no senseFrom nature given, but by her influence.[10]IfOrpheusdid those senslesse creatures move,He was a Prophet, and fore-sang my love.[10]IfOrpheusdid those senslesse creatures stirre,He was a Prophet, and fore-sang of her. 1634, 1635.
Swift in thy watry chariot, courteousThames,Hast by the happy error of thy streames,To kisse the banks ofMarlow, which doth showFaireSeymors, and beyond that never flow.Then summon all thy Swans, that who did giveMusicke to death, may henceforth sing, and live,For myCastara. She can life restore,Or quicken them who had no life before.How should the Poplar else the Pine provoke;The stately Cedar challenge the rude OkeTo dance at sight of her? They have no senseFrom nature given, but by her influence.[10]IfOrpheusdid those senslesse creatures move,He was a Prophet, and fore-sang my love.
Swift in thy watry chariot, courteousThames,
Hast by the happy error of thy streames,
To kisse the banks ofMarlow, which doth show
FaireSeymors, and beyond that never flow.
Then summon all thy Swans, that who did give
Musicke to death, may henceforth sing, and live,
For myCastara. She can life restore,
Or quicken them who had no life before.
How should the Poplar else the Pine provoke;
The stately Cedar challenge the rude Oke
To dance at sight of her? They have no sense
From nature given, but by her influence.
[10]IfOrpheusdid those senslesse creatures move,
He was a Prophet, and fore-sang my love.
[10]IfOrpheusdid those senslesse creatures stirre,He was a Prophet, and fore-sang of her. 1634, 1635.
[10]IfOrpheusdid those senslesse creatures stirre,He was a Prophet, and fore-sang of her. 1634, 1635.
To the right honourable the Earle ofShrewes.[11]My Muse (great Lord) when last you heard her singDid to your Uncles Urne, her off'rings bring:And if to fame I may give faith, your earesDelighted in the musicke of her teares.That was her debt to vertue. And when e'reShe her bright head among the clouds shall reareAnd adde to th' wondring heavens a new flame,Shee'le celebrate the Genius of your name.Wilde with another rage, inspir'd by love,She charmes the Myrtles of the Idalian grove.And while she gives the Cyprian stormes a law,Those wanton Doves whichCythereiadrawThrough th' am'rous ayre: Admire what power doth swayThe Ocean, and arrest them in their way.She singsCastarathen. O she more bright,Than is the starry Senate of the night;Who in their motion did like straglers erre,Cause they deriv'd no influence from her,Who's constant as she's chaste. The Sinne hath beeneClad like a neighb'ring shepheard often seeneTo hunt those Dales, in hope thenDaphnes, thereTo see a brighter face. Th' AstrologerIn th' interim dyed, whose proud Art could not showWhence that Ecclipse did on the sudden grow.A wanton Satyre eager in the chaseOf some faire Nimph, beheldCastara'sface,And left his loose pursuite; who while he ey'd,Unchastely, such a beauty, glorifiedWith such a vertue; by heavens great commandsTurn'd marble, and there yet a Statute stands.As Poet thus. But as a Christian now,And by my zeale to you (my Lord) I vow,She doth a flame so pure and sacred move;In me impiety 'twere not to love.[11]To the Right Honourable my very good Lord,JohnEarle of S.1634, 1635.
To the right honourable the Earle ofShrewes.[11]My Muse (great Lord) when last you heard her singDid to your Uncles Urne, her off'rings bring:And if to fame I may give faith, your earesDelighted in the musicke of her teares.That was her debt to vertue. And when e'reShe her bright head among the clouds shall reareAnd adde to th' wondring heavens a new flame,Shee'le celebrate the Genius of your name.Wilde with another rage, inspir'd by love,She charmes the Myrtles of the Idalian grove.And while she gives the Cyprian stormes a law,Those wanton Doves whichCythereiadrawThrough th' am'rous ayre: Admire what power doth swayThe Ocean, and arrest them in their way.She singsCastarathen. O she more bright,Than is the starry Senate of the night;Who in their motion did like straglers erre,Cause they deriv'd no influence from her,Who's constant as she's chaste. The Sinne hath beeneClad like a neighb'ring shepheard often seeneTo hunt those Dales, in hope thenDaphnes, thereTo see a brighter face. Th' AstrologerIn th' interim dyed, whose proud Art could not showWhence that Ecclipse did on the sudden grow.A wanton Satyre eager in the chaseOf some faire Nimph, beheldCastara'sface,And left his loose pursuite; who while he ey'd,Unchastely, such a beauty, glorifiedWith such a vertue; by heavens great commandsTurn'd marble, and there yet a Statute stands.As Poet thus. But as a Christian now,And by my zeale to you (my Lord) I vow,She doth a flame so pure and sacred move;In me impiety 'twere not to love.[11]To the Right Honourable my very good Lord,JohnEarle of S.1634, 1635.
My Muse (great Lord) when last you heard her singDid to your Uncles Urne, her off'rings bring:And if to fame I may give faith, your earesDelighted in the musicke of her teares.That was her debt to vertue. And when e'reShe her bright head among the clouds shall reareAnd adde to th' wondring heavens a new flame,Shee'le celebrate the Genius of your name.Wilde with another rage, inspir'd by love,She charmes the Myrtles of the Idalian grove.And while she gives the Cyprian stormes a law,Those wanton Doves whichCythereiadrawThrough th' am'rous ayre: Admire what power doth swayThe Ocean, and arrest them in their way.She singsCastarathen. O she more bright,Than is the starry Senate of the night;Who in their motion did like straglers erre,Cause they deriv'd no influence from her,Who's constant as she's chaste. The Sinne hath beeneClad like a neighb'ring shepheard often seeneTo hunt those Dales, in hope thenDaphnes, thereTo see a brighter face. Th' AstrologerIn th' interim dyed, whose proud Art could not showWhence that Ecclipse did on the sudden grow.A wanton Satyre eager in the chaseOf some faire Nimph, beheldCastara'sface,And left his loose pursuite; who while he ey'd,Unchastely, such a beauty, glorifiedWith such a vertue; by heavens great commandsTurn'd marble, and there yet a Statute stands.As Poet thus. But as a Christian now,And by my zeale to you (my Lord) I vow,She doth a flame so pure and sacred move;In me impiety 'twere not to love.
My Muse (great Lord) when last you heard her sing
Did to your Uncles Urne, her off'rings bring:
And if to fame I may give faith, your eares
Delighted in the musicke of her teares.
That was her debt to vertue. And when e're
She her bright head among the clouds shall reare
And adde to th' wondring heavens a new flame,
Shee'le celebrate the Genius of your name.
Wilde with another rage, inspir'd by love,
She charmes the Myrtles of the Idalian grove.
And while she gives the Cyprian stormes a law,
Those wanton Doves whichCythereiadraw
Through th' am'rous ayre: Admire what power doth sway
The Ocean, and arrest them in their way.
She singsCastarathen. O she more bright,
Than is the starry Senate of the night;
Who in their motion did like straglers erre,
Cause they deriv'd no influence from her,
Who's constant as she's chaste. The Sinne hath beene
Clad like a neighb'ring shepheard often seene
To hunt those Dales, in hope thenDaphnes, there
To see a brighter face. Th' Astrologer
In th' interim dyed, whose proud Art could not show
Whence that Ecclipse did on the sudden grow.
A wanton Satyre eager in the chase
Of some faire Nimph, beheldCastara'sface,
And left his loose pursuite; who while he ey'd,
Unchastely, such a beauty, glorified
With such a vertue; by heavens great commands
Turn'd marble, and there yet a Statute stands.
As Poet thus. But as a Christian now,
And by my zeale to you (my Lord) I vow,
She doth a flame so pure and sacred move;
In me impiety 'twere not to love.
[11]To the Right Honourable my very good Lord,JohnEarle of S.1634, 1635.
[11]To the Right Honourable my very good Lord,JohnEarle of S.1634, 1635.
ToCupid.Wishing a speedy passage toCastara.ThankesCupid, but the Coach ofVenusmovesFor me too slow, drawn but by lazie Doves.I, left a journey my delay should finde,Will leape into the chariot of the winde.Swift as the flight of lightning through the ayre,Hee'le hurry me till I approach the faireBut unkindeSeymors. Thus he will proclaime,What tribute winds owe toCastara'sname.Viewing this prodigie, astonisht they,Who first accesse deny'd me, will obey,With feare what love commands: Yet censure meAs guilty of the blackest sorcery.But after to my wishes milder prove:When they know this the miracle of love.
ToCupid.Wishing a speedy passage toCastara.ThankesCupid, but the Coach ofVenusmovesFor me too slow, drawn but by lazie Doves.I, left a journey my delay should finde,Will leape into the chariot of the winde.Swift as the flight of lightning through the ayre,Hee'le hurry me till I approach the faireBut unkindeSeymors. Thus he will proclaime,What tribute winds owe toCastara'sname.Viewing this prodigie, astonisht they,Who first accesse deny'd me, will obey,With feare what love commands: Yet censure meAs guilty of the blackest sorcery.But after to my wishes milder prove:When they know this the miracle of love.
ThankesCupid, but the Coach ofVenusmovesFor me too slow, drawn but by lazie Doves.I, left a journey my delay should finde,Will leape into the chariot of the winde.Swift as the flight of lightning through the ayre,Hee'le hurry me till I approach the faireBut unkindeSeymors. Thus he will proclaime,What tribute winds owe toCastara'sname.Viewing this prodigie, astonisht they,Who first accesse deny'd me, will obey,With feare what love commands: Yet censure meAs guilty of the blackest sorcery.But after to my wishes milder prove:When they know this the miracle of love.
ThankesCupid, but the Coach ofVenusmoves
For me too slow, drawn but by lazie Doves.
I, left a journey my delay should finde,
Will leape into the chariot of the winde.
Swift as the flight of lightning through the ayre,
Hee'le hurry me till I approach the faire
But unkindeSeymors. Thus he will proclaime,
What tribute winds owe toCastara'sname.
Viewing this prodigie, astonisht they,
Who first accesse deny'd me, will obey,
With feare what love commands: Yet censure me
As guilty of the blackest sorcery.
But after to my wishes milder prove:
When they know this the miracle of love.
ToCastara.Of Love.How fancie mockes me? By th' effect I prove,'Twas am'rous folly, wings ascrib'd to love,And ore th' obedient elements command.Hee's lame as he is blinde, for here I standFixt as the earth. Throw then this Idoll downeYee lovers who first made it; which can frowneOr smile but as you please. But I'me untameIn rage.Castaracall thou[12]on his name,And though hee'le not beare up my vowes to thee,Hee'le triumph to bring downe my Saint to me.[12]then. 1634.
ToCastara.Of Love.How fancie mockes me? By th' effect I prove,'Twas am'rous folly, wings ascrib'd to love,And ore th' obedient elements command.Hee's lame as he is blinde, for here I standFixt as the earth. Throw then this Idoll downeYee lovers who first made it; which can frowneOr smile but as you please. But I'me untameIn rage.Castaracall thou[12]on his name,And though hee'le not beare up my vowes to thee,Hee'le triumph to bring downe my Saint to me.[12]then. 1634.
How fancie mockes me? By th' effect I prove,'Twas am'rous folly, wings ascrib'd to love,And ore th' obedient elements command.Hee's lame as he is blinde, for here I standFixt as the earth. Throw then this Idoll downeYee lovers who first made it; which can frowneOr smile but as you please. But I'me untameIn rage.Castaracall thou[12]on his name,And though hee'le not beare up my vowes to thee,Hee'le triumph to bring downe my Saint to me.
How fancie mockes me? By th' effect I prove,
'Twas am'rous folly, wings ascrib'd to love,
And ore th' obedient elements command.
Hee's lame as he is blinde, for here I stand
Fixt as the earth. Throw then this Idoll downe
Yee lovers who first made it; which can frowne
Or smile but as you please. But I'me untame
In rage.Castaracall thou[12]on his name,
And though hee'le not beare up my vowes to thee,
Hee'le triumph to bring downe my Saint to me.
[12]then. 1634.
[12]then. 1634.
To theSpring,Upon the uncertainty ofCastara'sabode.Faire Mistresse of[13]the earth, with garlands crown'dRise, by a lovers charme, from the parcht ground,And shew thy flowry wealth: that she, where ereHer starres shall guide her, meete thy beauties there.Should she to the cold Northerne climates goe,Force thy affrighted Lillies there to grow;Thy Roses in those gelid fields t' appeare;She absent, I have all their Winter here.Or if to the torrid Zone her way she bend,Her the coole breathing ofFavoniuslend,Thither command the birds to bring their quires.That Zone is temp'rate. I have all his fires.Attend her, courteous Spring, though we should hereLose by it all the treasures of the yeere.[13]to. 1634, 1635.
To theSpring,Upon the uncertainty ofCastara'sabode.Faire Mistresse of[13]the earth, with garlands crown'dRise, by a lovers charme, from the parcht ground,And shew thy flowry wealth: that she, where ereHer starres shall guide her, meete thy beauties there.Should she to the cold Northerne climates goe,Force thy affrighted Lillies there to grow;Thy Roses in those gelid fields t' appeare;She absent, I have all their Winter here.Or if to the torrid Zone her way she bend,Her the coole breathing ofFavoniuslend,Thither command the birds to bring their quires.That Zone is temp'rate. I have all his fires.Attend her, courteous Spring, though we should hereLose by it all the treasures of the yeere.[13]to. 1634, 1635.
Faire Mistresse of[13]the earth, with garlands crown'dRise, by a lovers charme, from the parcht ground,And shew thy flowry wealth: that she, where ereHer starres shall guide her, meete thy beauties there.Should she to the cold Northerne climates goe,Force thy affrighted Lillies there to grow;Thy Roses in those gelid fields t' appeare;She absent, I have all their Winter here.Or if to the torrid Zone her way she bend,Her the coole breathing ofFavoniuslend,Thither command the birds to bring their quires.That Zone is temp'rate. I have all his fires.Attend her, courteous Spring, though we should hereLose by it all the treasures of the yeere.
Faire Mistresse of[13]the earth, with garlands crown'd
Rise, by a lovers charme, from the parcht ground,
And shew thy flowry wealth: that she, where ere
Her starres shall guide her, meete thy beauties there.
Should she to the cold Northerne climates goe,
Force thy affrighted Lillies there to grow;
Thy Roses in those gelid fields t' appeare;
She absent, I have all their Winter here.
Or if to the torrid Zone her way she bend,
Her the coole breathing ofFavoniuslend,
Thither command the birds to bring their quires.
That Zone is temp'rate. I have all his fires.
Attend her, courteous Spring, though we should here
Lose by it all the treasures of the yeere.
[13]to. 1634, 1635.
[13]to. 1634, 1635.
ToReason,UponCastara'sabsence.With your calme precepts goe, and lay a storme,In some brest flegmaticke which would conformeHer life to your cold lawes: In vain y' engageYour selfe on me. I will obey my rage.Shee's gone, and I am lost. Some unknowne groveI'le finde, whereby the miracle of LoveI'le turne t' a fountaine, and divide the yeere,By numbring every moment with a teare.Where ifCastara(to avoyd the beamesOth' neighb'ring Sun) shall wandring meete my streames.And tasting, hope her thirst alaid shall be,Shee'le feele a sudden flame, and burne like me:And thus distracted cry. Tell me thou cleere,But treach'rous Fount, what lover's coffin'd here?
ToReason,UponCastara'sabsence.With your calme precepts goe, and lay a storme,In some brest flegmaticke which would conformeHer life to your cold lawes: In vain y' engageYour selfe on me. I will obey my rage.Shee's gone, and I am lost. Some unknowne groveI'le finde, whereby the miracle of LoveI'le turne t' a fountaine, and divide the yeere,By numbring every moment with a teare.Where ifCastara(to avoyd the beamesOth' neighb'ring Sun) shall wandring meete my streames.And tasting, hope her thirst alaid shall be,Shee'le feele a sudden flame, and burne like me:And thus distracted cry. Tell me thou cleere,But treach'rous Fount, what lover's coffin'd here?
With your calme precepts goe, and lay a storme,In some brest flegmaticke which would conformeHer life to your cold lawes: In vain y' engageYour selfe on me. I will obey my rage.Shee's gone, and I am lost. Some unknowne groveI'le finde, whereby the miracle of LoveI'le turne t' a fountaine, and divide the yeere,By numbring every moment with a teare.Where ifCastara(to avoyd the beamesOth' neighb'ring Sun) shall wandring meete my streames.And tasting, hope her thirst alaid shall be,Shee'le feele a sudden flame, and burne like me:And thus distracted cry. Tell me thou cleere,But treach'rous Fount, what lover's coffin'd here?
With your calme precepts goe, and lay a storme,
In some brest flegmaticke which would conforme
Her life to your cold lawes: In vain y' engage
Your selfe on me. I will obey my rage.
Shee's gone, and I am lost. Some unknowne grove
I'le finde, whereby the miracle of Love
I'le turne t' a fountaine, and divide the yeere,
By numbring every moment with a teare.
Where ifCastara(to avoyd the beames
Oth' neighb'ring Sun) shall wandring meete my streames.
And tasting, hope her thirst alaid shall be,
Shee'le feele a sudden flame, and burne like me:
And thus distracted cry. Tell me thou cleere,
But treach'rous Fount, what lover's coffin'd here?
An[14]answere toCastara'squestion.T'is ICastara, who when thou wert gone,Did freeze into this melancholy stone,To weepe the minutes of thy absence. WhereCan greefe have freer scope to mourne than here?The Larke here practiseth a sweeter straine,Aurora'searly blush to entertaine,And having too deepe tasted of these streames,He loves, and amorously courts her beames.The courteous turtle with a wandring zeale,Saw how to stone I did my selfe congeale,And murm'ring askt what power this change did move,The language of my waters whispered, Love.And thus transform'd Ile stand, till I shall see,That heart so ston'd and frozen, thaw'd in thee.[14]In.1634.
An[14]answere toCastara'squestion.T'is ICastara, who when thou wert gone,Did freeze into this melancholy stone,To weepe the minutes of thy absence. WhereCan greefe have freer scope to mourne than here?The Larke here practiseth a sweeter straine,Aurora'searly blush to entertaine,And having too deepe tasted of these streames,He loves, and amorously courts her beames.The courteous turtle with a wandring zeale,Saw how to stone I did my selfe congeale,And murm'ring askt what power this change did move,The language of my waters whispered, Love.And thus transform'd Ile stand, till I shall see,That heart so ston'd and frozen, thaw'd in thee.[14]In.1634.
T'is ICastara, who when thou wert gone,Did freeze into this melancholy stone,To weepe the minutes of thy absence. WhereCan greefe have freer scope to mourne than here?The Larke here practiseth a sweeter straine,Aurora'searly blush to entertaine,And having too deepe tasted of these streames,He loves, and amorously courts her beames.The courteous turtle with a wandring zeale,Saw how to stone I did my selfe congeale,And murm'ring askt what power this change did move,The language of my waters whispered, Love.And thus transform'd Ile stand, till I shall see,That heart so ston'd and frozen, thaw'd in thee.
T'is ICastara, who when thou wert gone,
Did freeze into this melancholy stone,
To weepe the minutes of thy absence. Where
Can greefe have freer scope to mourne than here?
The Larke here practiseth a sweeter straine,
Aurora'searly blush to entertaine,
And having too deepe tasted of these streames,
He loves, and amorously courts her beames.
The courteous turtle with a wandring zeale,
Saw how to stone I did my selfe congeale,
And murm'ring askt what power this change did move,
The language of my waters whispered, Love.
And thus transform'd Ile stand, till I shall see,
That heart so ston'd and frozen, thaw'd in thee.
[14]In.1634.
[14]In.1634.
ToCastara,Upon the disguising his affection.Pronounce me guilty of a Blacker crime,Then e're in the large Volume writ by Time.The sad Historian reades, if not my ArtDissembles love, to veile an am'rous heart.For when the zealous anger of my friendCheckes my unusuall sadnesse: I pretendTo study vertue, which indeede I doe,He must court vertue who aspires to you.Or that some friend is dead and then a teare,A sigh or groane steales from me: for I feareLest death with love hath strooke my heart, and allThese sorrowes usher but its funerall.[15]Which should revive, should there you a mourner be,And force a nuptiall in an obsequie.[15]Which would revive, should you there mourner be. 1634, 1635.
ToCastara,Upon the disguising his affection.Pronounce me guilty of a Blacker crime,Then e're in the large Volume writ by Time.The sad Historian reades, if not my ArtDissembles love, to veile an am'rous heart.For when the zealous anger of my friendCheckes my unusuall sadnesse: I pretendTo study vertue, which indeede I doe,He must court vertue who aspires to you.Or that some friend is dead and then a teare,A sigh or groane steales from me: for I feareLest death with love hath strooke my heart, and allThese sorrowes usher but its funerall.[15]Which should revive, should there you a mourner be,And force a nuptiall in an obsequie.[15]Which would revive, should you there mourner be. 1634, 1635.
Pronounce me guilty of a Blacker crime,Then e're in the large Volume writ by Time.The sad Historian reades, if not my ArtDissembles love, to veile an am'rous heart.For when the zealous anger of my friendCheckes my unusuall sadnesse: I pretendTo study vertue, which indeede I doe,He must court vertue who aspires to you.Or that some friend is dead and then a teare,A sigh or groane steales from me: for I feareLest death with love hath strooke my heart, and allThese sorrowes usher but its funerall.[15]Which should revive, should there you a mourner be,And force a nuptiall in an obsequie.
Pronounce me guilty of a Blacker crime,
Then e're in the large Volume writ by Time.
The sad Historian reades, if not my Art
Dissembles love, to veile an am'rous heart.
For when the zealous anger of my friend
Checkes my unusuall sadnesse: I pretend
To study vertue, which indeede I doe,
He must court vertue who aspires to you.
Or that some friend is dead and then a teare,
A sigh or groane steales from me: for I feare
Lest death with love hath strooke my heart, and all
These sorrowes usher but its funerall.
[15]Which should revive, should there you a mourner be,
And force a nuptiall in an obsequie.
[15]Which would revive, should you there mourner be. 1634, 1635.
[15]Which would revive, should you there mourner be. 1634, 1635.
To the honourable my honoured kinsman, Mr. G. T.Thrice hath the pale-fac'd Empresse of the night,Lent in her chaste increase her borrowed light,To guide the vowing Mariner: since muteTalbotth'ast beene, too slothfull to saluteThy exil'd servant. Labour not t' excuseThis dull neglect: Love never wants a Muse.When thunder summons from eternall sleepeTh' imprison'd ghosts, and spreads oth' frighted deepe,A veile of darknesse; penitent to beI may forget, yet still remember thee,Next to my faire, under whose eye-lids move,In nimble measures beauty, wit, and love.Nor thinkeCastara(though the sexe be fraile,And ever like uncertaine vessels saileOn th' ocean of their passions; while each windTriumphs to see their more uncertaine mind,)Can be induc't to alter: Every starreMay in its motion grow irregular;The Sunne forget to yeeld his welcome flameTo th' teeming earth, yet she remaine the same.And in my armes (if Poets may divine)I once that world of beauty shall intwine,And on her lips print volumes of my love,Without a froward checke, and sweetly moveIth' Labyrinth of delight. If not, Ile drawHer picture on my heart, and gently thawWith warmth of zeale, untill I heaven entreat,To give true life to th' ayery counterfeit.
To the honourable my honoured kinsman, Mr. G. T.Thrice hath the pale-fac'd Empresse of the night,Lent in her chaste increase her borrowed light,To guide the vowing Mariner: since muteTalbotth'ast beene, too slothfull to saluteThy exil'd servant. Labour not t' excuseThis dull neglect: Love never wants a Muse.When thunder summons from eternall sleepeTh' imprison'd ghosts, and spreads oth' frighted deepe,A veile of darknesse; penitent to beI may forget, yet still remember thee,Next to my faire, under whose eye-lids move,In nimble measures beauty, wit, and love.Nor thinkeCastara(though the sexe be fraile,And ever like uncertaine vessels saileOn th' ocean of their passions; while each windTriumphs to see their more uncertaine mind,)Can be induc't to alter: Every starreMay in its motion grow irregular;The Sunne forget to yeeld his welcome flameTo th' teeming earth, yet she remaine the same.And in my armes (if Poets may divine)I once that world of beauty shall intwine,And on her lips print volumes of my love,Without a froward checke, and sweetly moveIth' Labyrinth of delight. If not, Ile drawHer picture on my heart, and gently thawWith warmth of zeale, untill I heaven entreat,To give true life to th' ayery counterfeit.
Thrice hath the pale-fac'd Empresse of the night,Lent in her chaste increase her borrowed light,To guide the vowing Mariner: since muteTalbotth'ast beene, too slothfull to saluteThy exil'd servant. Labour not t' excuseThis dull neglect: Love never wants a Muse.When thunder summons from eternall sleepeTh' imprison'd ghosts, and spreads oth' frighted deepe,A veile of darknesse; penitent to beI may forget, yet still remember thee,Next to my faire, under whose eye-lids move,In nimble measures beauty, wit, and love.Nor thinkeCastara(though the sexe be fraile,And ever like uncertaine vessels saileOn th' ocean of their passions; while each windTriumphs to see their more uncertaine mind,)Can be induc't to alter: Every starreMay in its motion grow irregular;The Sunne forget to yeeld his welcome flameTo th' teeming earth, yet she remaine the same.And in my armes (if Poets may divine)I once that world of beauty shall intwine,And on her lips print volumes of my love,Without a froward checke, and sweetly moveIth' Labyrinth of delight. If not, Ile drawHer picture on my heart, and gently thawWith warmth of zeale, untill I heaven entreat,To give true life to th' ayery counterfeit.
Thrice hath the pale-fac'd Empresse of the night,
Lent in her chaste increase her borrowed light,
To guide the vowing Mariner: since mute
Talbotth'ast beene, too slothfull to salute
Thy exil'd servant. Labour not t' excuse
This dull neglect: Love never wants a Muse.
When thunder summons from eternall sleepe
Th' imprison'd ghosts, and spreads oth' frighted deepe,
A veile of darknesse; penitent to be
I may forget, yet still remember thee,
Next to my faire, under whose eye-lids move,
In nimble measures beauty, wit, and love.
Nor thinkeCastara(though the sexe be fraile,
And ever like uncertaine vessels saile
On th' ocean of their passions; while each wind
Triumphs to see their more uncertaine mind,)
Can be induc't to alter: Every starre
May in its motion grow irregular;
The Sunne forget to yeeld his welcome flame
To th' teeming earth, yet she remaine the same.
And in my armes (if Poets may divine)
I once that world of beauty shall intwine,
And on her lips print volumes of my love,
Without a froward checke, and sweetly move
Ith' Labyrinth of delight. If not, Ile draw
Her picture on my heart, and gently thaw
With warmth of zeale, untill I heaven entreat,
To give true life to th' ayery counterfeit.
EcchotoNarcissus.In praise ofCastara'sdiscreete Love.Scorn'd in thy watry UrneNarcissuslye,Thou shalt not force more tribute from my eyeT' increase thy streames: or make me weepe a showre,To adde fresh beauty to thee, now a flowre.But should relenting heaven restore thee sence,To see such wisedome temper innocence,In faireCastara'slove; how she discreet,Makes caution with a noble freedome meete,At the same moment; thould'st confesse fond boy,Fooles onely think them vertuous, who are coy.And wonder not that I, who have no choyceOf speech, have praysing her so free a voyce:Heaven her severest sentence doth repeale,When toCastaraI would speake my zeale.
EcchotoNarcissus.In praise ofCastara'sdiscreete Love.Scorn'd in thy watry UrneNarcissuslye,Thou shalt not force more tribute from my eyeT' increase thy streames: or make me weepe a showre,To adde fresh beauty to thee, now a flowre.But should relenting heaven restore thee sence,To see such wisedome temper innocence,In faireCastara'slove; how she discreet,Makes caution with a noble freedome meete,At the same moment; thould'st confesse fond boy,Fooles onely think them vertuous, who are coy.And wonder not that I, who have no choyceOf speech, have praysing her so free a voyce:Heaven her severest sentence doth repeale,When toCastaraI would speake my zeale.
Scorn'd in thy watry UrneNarcissuslye,Thou shalt not force more tribute from my eyeT' increase thy streames: or make me weepe a showre,To adde fresh beauty to thee, now a flowre.But should relenting heaven restore thee sence,To see such wisedome temper innocence,In faireCastara'slove; how she discreet,Makes caution with a noble freedome meete,At the same moment; thould'st confesse fond boy,Fooles onely think them vertuous, who are coy.And wonder not that I, who have no choyceOf speech, have praysing her so free a voyce:Heaven her severest sentence doth repeale,When toCastaraI would speake my zeale.
Scorn'd in thy watry UrneNarcissuslye,
Thou shalt not force more tribute from my eye
T' increase thy streames: or make me weepe a showre,
To adde fresh beauty to thee, now a flowre.
But should relenting heaven restore thee sence,
To see such wisedome temper innocence,
In faireCastara'slove; how she discreet,
Makes caution with a noble freedome meete,
At the same moment; thould'st confesse fond boy,
Fooles onely think them vertuous, who are coy.
And wonder not that I, who have no choyce
Of speech, have praysing her so free a voyce:
Heaven her severest sentence doth repeale,
When toCastaraI would speake my zeale.
ToCastara,Being debarr'd her presence.Banisht from you, I charg'd the nimble winde,My unseene Messenger, to speake my minde,In am'rous whispers to you. But my MuseLest the unruly spirit should abuseThe trust repos'd in him, sayd it was dueTo her alone, to sing my loves to you.Heare her then speake. Bright Lady, from whose eyeShot lightning to his heart, who joyes to dyeA martyr in your flames: O let your loveBe great and firme as his: Then nought shall moveYour setled faiths, that both may grow together:Or if by Fate divided, both may wither.Hark! 'twas a groane. Ah how sad absence rendsHis troubled thoughts! See, he fromMarlowsendsHis eyes toSeymors. Then chides th' envious trees,And unkinde distance. Yet his fancie seesAnd courts your beauty, joyes as he had cleav'dClose to you, and then weepes because deceiv'd.Be constant as y'are faire. For I fore-seeA glorious triumph waits o'th victorieYour love will purchase, shewing us to prizeA true content. There onely Love hath eyes.
ToCastara,Being debarr'd her presence.Banisht from you, I charg'd the nimble winde,My unseene Messenger, to speake my minde,In am'rous whispers to you. But my MuseLest the unruly spirit should abuseThe trust repos'd in him, sayd it was dueTo her alone, to sing my loves to you.Heare her then speake. Bright Lady, from whose eyeShot lightning to his heart, who joyes to dyeA martyr in your flames: O let your loveBe great and firme as his: Then nought shall moveYour setled faiths, that both may grow together:Or if by Fate divided, both may wither.Hark! 'twas a groane. Ah how sad absence rendsHis troubled thoughts! See, he fromMarlowsendsHis eyes toSeymors. Then chides th' envious trees,And unkinde distance. Yet his fancie seesAnd courts your beauty, joyes as he had cleav'dClose to you, and then weepes because deceiv'd.Be constant as y'are faire. For I fore-seeA glorious triumph waits o'th victorieYour love will purchase, shewing us to prizeA true content. There onely Love hath eyes.
Banisht from you, I charg'd the nimble winde,My unseene Messenger, to speake my minde,In am'rous whispers to you. But my MuseLest the unruly spirit should abuseThe trust repos'd in him, sayd it was dueTo her alone, to sing my loves to you.Heare her then speake. Bright Lady, from whose eyeShot lightning to his heart, who joyes to dyeA martyr in your flames: O let your loveBe great and firme as his: Then nought shall moveYour setled faiths, that both may grow together:Or if by Fate divided, both may wither.Hark! 'twas a groane. Ah how sad absence rendsHis troubled thoughts! See, he fromMarlowsendsHis eyes toSeymors. Then chides th' envious trees,And unkinde distance. Yet his fancie seesAnd courts your beauty, joyes as he had cleav'dClose to you, and then weepes because deceiv'd.Be constant as y'are faire. For I fore-seeA glorious triumph waits o'th victorieYour love will purchase, shewing us to prizeA true content. There onely Love hath eyes.
Banisht from you, I charg'd the nimble winde,
My unseene Messenger, to speake my minde,
In am'rous whispers to you. But my Muse
Lest the unruly spirit should abuse
The trust repos'd in him, sayd it was due
To her alone, to sing my loves to you.
Heare her then speake. Bright Lady, from whose eye
Shot lightning to his heart, who joyes to dye
A martyr in your flames: O let your love
Be great and firme as his: Then nought shall move
Your setled faiths, that both may grow together:
Or if by Fate divided, both may wither.
Hark! 'twas a groane. Ah how sad absence rends
His troubled thoughts! See, he fromMarlowsends
His eyes toSeymors. Then chides th' envious trees,
And unkinde distance. Yet his fancie sees
And courts your beauty, joyes as he had cleav'd
Close to you, and then weepes because deceiv'd.
Be constant as y'are faire. For I fore-see
A glorious triumph waits o'th victorie
Your love will purchase, shewing us to prize
A true content. There onely Love hath eyes.
ToSeymors,The house in whichCastaralived.Blest Temple, haile, where the Chast Altar stands,Which Nature built, but the exacter handsOf Vertue polisht. Though sad Fate denyMy prophane feete accesse, my vowes shall flye.May those Musitians, which divide the ayreWith their harmonious breath, their flight prepare,For this glad place, and all their accents frame,To teach the Eccho myCastara'sname.The beautious troopes of graces led by loveIn chaste attempts, possesse the neighb'ring groveWhere may the Spring dwell still. May every treeTurne to a Laurell, and propheticke be.Which shall in its first Oracle divine,That courteous Fate decreeCastaramine.
ToSeymors,The house in whichCastaralived.Blest Temple, haile, where the Chast Altar stands,Which Nature built, but the exacter handsOf Vertue polisht. Though sad Fate denyMy prophane feete accesse, my vowes shall flye.May those Musitians, which divide the ayreWith their harmonious breath, their flight prepare,For this glad place, and all their accents frame,To teach the Eccho myCastara'sname.The beautious troopes of graces led by loveIn chaste attempts, possesse the neighb'ring groveWhere may the Spring dwell still. May every treeTurne to a Laurell, and propheticke be.Which shall in its first Oracle divine,That courteous Fate decreeCastaramine.
Blest Temple, haile, where the Chast Altar stands,Which Nature built, but the exacter handsOf Vertue polisht. Though sad Fate denyMy prophane feete accesse, my vowes shall flye.May those Musitians, which divide the ayreWith their harmonious breath, their flight prepare,For this glad place, and all their accents frame,To teach the Eccho myCastara'sname.The beautious troopes of graces led by loveIn chaste attempts, possesse the neighb'ring groveWhere may the Spring dwell still. May every treeTurne to a Laurell, and propheticke be.Which shall in its first Oracle divine,That courteous Fate decreeCastaramine.
Blest Temple, haile, where the Chast Altar stands,
Which Nature built, but the exacter hands
Of Vertue polisht. Though sad Fate deny
My prophane feete accesse, my vowes shall flye.
May those Musitians, which divide the ayre
With their harmonious breath, their flight prepare,
For this glad place, and all their accents frame,
To teach the Eccho myCastara'sname.
The beautious troopes of graces led by love
In chaste attempts, possesse the neighb'ring grove
Where may the Spring dwell still. May every tree
Turne to a Laurell, and propheticke be.
Which shall in its first Oracle divine,
That courteous Fate decreeCastaramine.
To theDew,In hope to seeCastarawalking.Bright Dew which dost the field adorneAs th' earth to welcome in the morne,Would hang a jewell on each corne.Did not the pittious night, whose earesHave oft beene conscious of my fearesDistill you from her eyes as teares?Or thatCastarafor your zeale,When she her beauties shall reveale,Might you to Dyamonds congeale?If not your pity, yet how ereYour care I praise, 'gainst she appeare,To make the wealthy Indies here.But see she comes. Bright lampe oth' skie,Put out thy light: the world shall spie,A fairer Sunne in either eye.And liquid Pearle, hang heavie nowOn every grasse that it may bowIn veneration of her brow.Yet if the wind should curious be,And were I here, should question thee,Hee's full of whispers, speak not me.But if the busie tell-tale day,Our happy enterview betray;Lest thou confesse too, melt away.
To theDew,In hope to seeCastarawalking.Bright Dew which dost the field adorneAs th' earth to welcome in the morne,Would hang a jewell on each corne.Did not the pittious night, whose earesHave oft beene conscious of my fearesDistill you from her eyes as teares?Or thatCastarafor your zeale,When she her beauties shall reveale,Might you to Dyamonds congeale?If not your pity, yet how ereYour care I praise, 'gainst she appeare,To make the wealthy Indies here.But see she comes. Bright lampe oth' skie,Put out thy light: the world shall spie,A fairer Sunne in either eye.And liquid Pearle, hang heavie nowOn every grasse that it may bowIn veneration of her brow.Yet if the wind should curious be,And were I here, should question thee,Hee's full of whispers, speak not me.But if the busie tell-tale day,Our happy enterview betray;Lest thou confesse too, melt away.
Bright Dew which dost the field adorneAs th' earth to welcome in the morne,Would hang a jewell on each corne.
Bright Dew which dost the field adorne
As th' earth to welcome in the morne,
Would hang a jewell on each corne.
Did not the pittious night, whose earesHave oft beene conscious of my fearesDistill you from her eyes as teares?
Did not the pittious night, whose eares
Have oft beene conscious of my feares
Distill you from her eyes as teares?
Or thatCastarafor your zeale,When she her beauties shall reveale,Might you to Dyamonds congeale?
Or thatCastarafor your zeale,
When she her beauties shall reveale,
Might you to Dyamonds congeale?
If not your pity, yet how ereYour care I praise, 'gainst she appeare,To make the wealthy Indies here.
If not your pity, yet how ere
Your care I praise, 'gainst she appeare,
To make the wealthy Indies here.
But see she comes. Bright lampe oth' skie,Put out thy light: the world shall spie,A fairer Sunne in either eye.
But see she comes. Bright lampe oth' skie,
Put out thy light: the world shall spie,
A fairer Sunne in either eye.
And liquid Pearle, hang heavie nowOn every grasse that it may bowIn veneration of her brow.
And liquid Pearle, hang heavie now
On every grasse that it may bow
In veneration of her brow.
Yet if the wind should curious be,And were I here, should question thee,Hee's full of whispers, speak not me.
Yet if the wind should curious be,
And were I here, should question thee,
Hee's full of whispers, speak not me.
But if the busie tell-tale day,Our happy enterview betray;Lest thou confesse too, melt away.
But if the busie tell-tale day,
Our happy enterview betray;
Lest thou confesse too, melt away.
ToCastara.Stay under the kinde shadow of this treeCastara, and protect thy selfe and meFrom the Sunnes rayes. Which shew the grace of Kings,A dangerous warmth with too much favour brings.How happy in this shade the humble VineDoth 'bout some taller tree her selfe intwine,And so growes fruitefull; teaching us her fateDoth beare more sweetes, though Cedars beare more state:BeholdAdonisin yand' purple flowre,T'wasVenuslove: That dew, the briny showre,His coynesse wept, while strugling yet alive:Now he repents, and gladly would revive,By th' vertue of your chaste and powerfull charmes,To play the modest wanton in your armes.
ToCastara.Stay under the kinde shadow of this treeCastara, and protect thy selfe and meFrom the Sunnes rayes. Which shew the grace of Kings,A dangerous warmth with too much favour brings.How happy in this shade the humble VineDoth 'bout some taller tree her selfe intwine,And so growes fruitefull; teaching us her fateDoth beare more sweetes, though Cedars beare more state:BeholdAdonisin yand' purple flowre,T'wasVenuslove: That dew, the briny showre,His coynesse wept, while strugling yet alive:Now he repents, and gladly would revive,By th' vertue of your chaste and powerfull charmes,To play the modest wanton in your armes.
Stay under the kinde shadow of this treeCastara, and protect thy selfe and meFrom the Sunnes rayes. Which shew the grace of Kings,A dangerous warmth with too much favour brings.How happy in this shade the humble VineDoth 'bout some taller tree her selfe intwine,And so growes fruitefull; teaching us her fateDoth beare more sweetes, though Cedars beare more state:BeholdAdonisin yand' purple flowre,T'wasVenuslove: That dew, the briny showre,His coynesse wept, while strugling yet alive:Now he repents, and gladly would revive,By th' vertue of your chaste and powerfull charmes,To play the modest wanton in your armes.
Stay under the kinde shadow of this tree
Castara, and protect thy selfe and me
From the Sunnes rayes. Which shew the grace of Kings,
A dangerous warmth with too much favour brings.
How happy in this shade the humble Vine
Doth 'bout some taller tree her selfe intwine,
And so growes fruitefull; teaching us her fate
Doth beare more sweetes, though Cedars beare more state:
BeholdAdonisin yand' purple flowre,
T'wasVenuslove: That dew, the briny showre,
His coynesse wept, while strugling yet alive:
Now he repents, and gladly would revive,
By th' vertue of your chaste and powerfull charmes,
To play the modest wanton in your armes.
ToCastara,Ventring to walke too farre in the neighbouring wood.Dare not too farreCastara, for the shadeThis courteous thicket yeelds, hath man betray'dA prey to wolves: to the wilde powers oth' wood,Oft travellers pay tribute with their blood.If carelesse of thy selfe of me take care,For like a ship where all the fortunes areOf an advent'rous merchant; I must be,If thou should'st perish banquerout in thee.My feares have mockt me. Tygers when they shallBehold so bright a face, will humbly fallIn adoration of thee. Fierce they areTo the deform'd, obsequious to the faire.Yet venter not; tis nobler farre to swayThe heart of man, than beasts, who man obey.
ToCastara,Ventring to walke too farre in the neighbouring wood.Dare not too farreCastara, for the shadeThis courteous thicket yeelds, hath man betray'dA prey to wolves: to the wilde powers oth' wood,Oft travellers pay tribute with their blood.If carelesse of thy selfe of me take care,For like a ship where all the fortunes areOf an advent'rous merchant; I must be,If thou should'st perish banquerout in thee.My feares have mockt me. Tygers when they shallBehold so bright a face, will humbly fallIn adoration of thee. Fierce they areTo the deform'd, obsequious to the faire.Yet venter not; tis nobler farre to swayThe heart of man, than beasts, who man obey.
Dare not too farreCastara, for the shadeThis courteous thicket yeelds, hath man betray'dA prey to wolves: to the wilde powers oth' wood,Oft travellers pay tribute with their blood.If carelesse of thy selfe of me take care,For like a ship where all the fortunes areOf an advent'rous merchant; I must be,If thou should'st perish banquerout in thee.My feares have mockt me. Tygers when they shallBehold so bright a face, will humbly fallIn adoration of thee. Fierce they areTo the deform'd, obsequious to the faire.Yet venter not; tis nobler farre to swayThe heart of man, than beasts, who man obey.
Dare not too farreCastara, for the shade
This courteous thicket yeelds, hath man betray'd
A prey to wolves: to the wilde powers oth' wood,
Oft travellers pay tribute with their blood.
If carelesse of thy selfe of me take care,
For like a ship where all the fortunes are
Of an advent'rous merchant; I must be,
If thou should'st perish banquerout in thee.
My feares have mockt me. Tygers when they shall
Behold so bright a face, will humbly fall
In adoration of thee. Fierce they are
To the deform'd, obsequious to the faire.
Yet venter not; tis nobler farre to sway
The heart of man, than beasts, who man obey.
UponCastara'sdeparture.Vowes are vaine. No suppliant breathStayes the speed of swift-heel'd death.Life with her is gone and ILearne but a new way to dye.See the flowers condole, and allWither in my funerall.The bright Lilly, as if day,Parted with her, fades away.Violets hang their heads, and loseAll their beauty. That the RoseA sad part in sorrow beares,Witnesse all those dewy teares,Which as Pearle, or Dyamond like,Swell upon her blushing cheeke.All things mourne, but oh beholdHow the wither'd MarigoldCloseth up now she is gone,Judging her the setting Sunne.
UponCastara'sdeparture.Vowes are vaine. No suppliant breathStayes the speed of swift-heel'd death.Life with her is gone and ILearne but a new way to dye.See the flowers condole, and allWither in my funerall.The bright Lilly, as if day,Parted with her, fades away.Violets hang their heads, and loseAll their beauty. That the RoseA sad part in sorrow beares,Witnesse all those dewy teares,Which as Pearle, or Dyamond like,Swell upon her blushing cheeke.All things mourne, but oh beholdHow the wither'd MarigoldCloseth up now she is gone,Judging her the setting Sunne.
Vowes are vaine. No suppliant breathStayes the speed of swift-heel'd death.Life with her is gone and ILearne but a new way to dye.See the flowers condole, and allWither in my funerall.The bright Lilly, as if day,Parted with her, fades away.Violets hang their heads, and loseAll their beauty. That the RoseA sad part in sorrow beares,Witnesse all those dewy teares,Which as Pearle, or Dyamond like,Swell upon her blushing cheeke.All things mourne, but oh beholdHow the wither'd MarigoldCloseth up now she is gone,Judging her the setting Sunne.
Vowes are vaine. No suppliant breath
Stayes the speed of swift-heel'd death.
Life with her is gone and I
Learne but a new way to dye.
See the flowers condole, and all
Wither in my funerall.
The bright Lilly, as if day,
Parted with her, fades away.
Violets hang their heads, and lose
All their beauty. That the Rose
A sad part in sorrow beares,
Witnesse all those dewy teares,
Which as Pearle, or Dyamond like,
Swell upon her blushing cheeke.
All things mourne, but oh behold
How the wither'd Marigold
Closeth up now she is gone,
Judging her the setting Sunne.
A Dialogue betweenNightandAraphill.Night.Let silence close my troubled eyes,Thy feare inLethesteepe:The starres bright cent'nels of the skies,Watch to secure thy sleepe.Araph.The Norths unruly spirit layIn the disorder'd Seas:Make the rude Winter calme asMay,And give a lover ease.Night.Yet why should feare with her pale charmes,Bewitch thee so to griefe?Since it prevents n' insuing harmes,Nor yeelds the past reliefe.Araph.And yet such horror I sustaineAs the sad vessell, whenRough tempests have incenst the Maine,Her Harbor now in ken.Night.No conquest weares a glorious wreathWhich dangers not obtaine:Let tempests 'gainst thee shipwracke breathe,Thou shalt thy harbour gaine.Araph.TruthsDelphosdoth not still foretell,ThoughSolth' inspirer be.How then should night as blind as hell,Ensuing truths fore-see?Night.The Sunne yeelds man no constant flame.One light those Priests inspires.While I though blacke am still the same,And have ten thousand fires.Araph.But those, sayes my propheticke feare,As funerall torches burne;While thou thy selfe the blackes dost weare,T' attend me to my Urne.Night.Thy feares abuse thee, for those lightsInHymensChurch shall shine,When he by th' mystery of his rites,Shall makeCastarathine.
A Dialogue betweenNightandAraphill.Night.Let silence close my troubled eyes,Thy feare inLethesteepe:The starres bright cent'nels of the skies,Watch to secure thy sleepe.Araph.The Norths unruly spirit layIn the disorder'd Seas:Make the rude Winter calme asMay,And give a lover ease.Night.Yet why should feare with her pale charmes,Bewitch thee so to griefe?Since it prevents n' insuing harmes,Nor yeelds the past reliefe.Araph.And yet such horror I sustaineAs the sad vessell, whenRough tempests have incenst the Maine,Her Harbor now in ken.Night.No conquest weares a glorious wreathWhich dangers not obtaine:Let tempests 'gainst thee shipwracke breathe,Thou shalt thy harbour gaine.Araph.TruthsDelphosdoth not still foretell,ThoughSolth' inspirer be.How then should night as blind as hell,Ensuing truths fore-see?Night.The Sunne yeelds man no constant flame.One light those Priests inspires.While I though blacke am still the same,And have ten thousand fires.Araph.But those, sayes my propheticke feare,As funerall torches burne;While thou thy selfe the blackes dost weare,T' attend me to my Urne.Night.Thy feares abuse thee, for those lightsInHymensChurch shall shine,When he by th' mystery of his rites,Shall makeCastarathine.
Let silence close my troubled eyes,
Thy feare inLethesteepe:
The starres bright cent'nels of the skies,
Watch to secure thy sleepe.
The Norths unruly spirit lay
In the disorder'd Seas:
Make the rude Winter calme asMay,
And give a lover ease.
Yet why should feare with her pale charmes,
Bewitch thee so to griefe?
Since it prevents n' insuing harmes,
Nor yeelds the past reliefe.
And yet such horror I sustaine
As the sad vessell, when
Rough tempests have incenst the Maine,
Her Harbor now in ken.
No conquest weares a glorious wreath
Which dangers not obtaine:
Let tempests 'gainst thee shipwracke breathe,
Thou shalt thy harbour gaine.
TruthsDelphosdoth not still foretell,
ThoughSolth' inspirer be.
How then should night as blind as hell,
Ensuing truths fore-see?
The Sunne yeelds man no constant flame.
One light those Priests inspires.
While I though blacke am still the same,
And have ten thousand fires.
But those, sayes my propheticke feare,
As funerall torches burne;
While thou thy selfe the blackes dost weare,
T' attend me to my Urne.
Thy feares abuse thee, for those lights
InHymensChurch shall shine,
When he by th' mystery of his rites,
Shall makeCastarathine.
To the Right Honourable,the Lady, E. P.Your judgement's cleere, not wrinckled with the Time,On th' humble fate: which censures it a crime,To be by vertue ruin'd. For I knowY'are not so various as to ebbe and flowIth' streame of fortune, whom each faithlesse windeDistracts, and they who made her, fram'd her blinde.Possession makes us poore. Should we obtaineAll those bright jems, for which ith' wealthy Maine,The tann'd slave dives; or in one boundlesse chestImprison all the treasures of the West,We still should want. Our better part's immence,Not like th' inferiour, limited by sence.Rich with a little, mutuall love can liftUs to a greatnesse, whether chance or thriftE're rais'd her servants. For though all were spent,That can create anEuropein content.Thus (Madam) whenCastaralends an eareSoft to my hope, I Loves Philosopher,Winne on her faith. For when I wondring standAt th' intermingled beauty of her hand,(Higher I dare not gaze) to this bright veineI not ascribe the blood ofCharlemaineDeriv'd by you to her. Or say there areIn that and th'otherMarmion,Rosse, andParrFitzhugh,Saint Quintin, and the rest of themThat adde such lustre to greatPembrokesstem.My love is envious. WouldCastarawereThe daughter of some mountaine cottager,Who with his toile worne out, could dying leaveHer no more dowre, than what she did receiveFrom bounteous nature. Her would I then leadTo th' Temple, rich in her owne wealth; her headCrown'd with her haires faire treasure; diamonds inHer brighter eyes; soft Ermines in her skin;Each Indie in each cheeke. Then all who vaunt,That fortune, them t' enrich, made others want,Should set themselves out glorious in her stealth,And trie if that, could parallel this wealth.
To the Right Honourable,the Lady, E. P.Your judgement's cleere, not wrinckled with the Time,On th' humble fate: which censures it a crime,To be by vertue ruin'd. For I knowY'are not so various as to ebbe and flowIth' streame of fortune, whom each faithlesse windeDistracts, and they who made her, fram'd her blinde.Possession makes us poore. Should we obtaineAll those bright jems, for which ith' wealthy Maine,The tann'd slave dives; or in one boundlesse chestImprison all the treasures of the West,We still should want. Our better part's immence,Not like th' inferiour, limited by sence.Rich with a little, mutuall love can liftUs to a greatnesse, whether chance or thriftE're rais'd her servants. For though all were spent,That can create anEuropein content.Thus (Madam) whenCastaralends an eareSoft to my hope, I Loves Philosopher,Winne on her faith. For when I wondring standAt th' intermingled beauty of her hand,(Higher I dare not gaze) to this bright veineI not ascribe the blood ofCharlemaineDeriv'd by you to her. Or say there areIn that and th'otherMarmion,Rosse, andParrFitzhugh,Saint Quintin, and the rest of themThat adde such lustre to greatPembrokesstem.My love is envious. WouldCastarawereThe daughter of some mountaine cottager,Who with his toile worne out, could dying leaveHer no more dowre, than what she did receiveFrom bounteous nature. Her would I then leadTo th' Temple, rich in her owne wealth; her headCrown'd with her haires faire treasure; diamonds inHer brighter eyes; soft Ermines in her skin;Each Indie in each cheeke. Then all who vaunt,That fortune, them t' enrich, made others want,Should set themselves out glorious in her stealth,And trie if that, could parallel this wealth.
Your judgement's cleere, not wrinckled with the Time,On th' humble fate: which censures it a crime,To be by vertue ruin'd. For I knowY'are not so various as to ebbe and flowIth' streame of fortune, whom each faithlesse windeDistracts, and they who made her, fram'd her blinde.Possession makes us poore. Should we obtaineAll those bright jems, for which ith' wealthy Maine,The tann'd slave dives; or in one boundlesse chestImprison all the treasures of the West,We still should want. Our better part's immence,Not like th' inferiour, limited by sence.Rich with a little, mutuall love can liftUs to a greatnesse, whether chance or thriftE're rais'd her servants. For though all were spent,That can create anEuropein content.Thus (Madam) whenCastaralends an eareSoft to my hope, I Loves Philosopher,Winne on her faith. For when I wondring standAt th' intermingled beauty of her hand,(Higher I dare not gaze) to this bright veineI not ascribe the blood ofCharlemaineDeriv'd by you to her. Or say there areIn that and th'otherMarmion,Rosse, andParrFitzhugh,Saint Quintin, and the rest of themThat adde such lustre to greatPembrokesstem.My love is envious. WouldCastarawereThe daughter of some mountaine cottager,Who with his toile worne out, could dying leaveHer no more dowre, than what she did receiveFrom bounteous nature. Her would I then leadTo th' Temple, rich in her owne wealth; her headCrown'd with her haires faire treasure; diamonds inHer brighter eyes; soft Ermines in her skin;Each Indie in each cheeke. Then all who vaunt,That fortune, them t' enrich, made others want,Should set themselves out glorious in her stealth,And trie if that, could parallel this wealth.
Your judgement's cleere, not wrinckled with the Time,
On th' humble fate: which censures it a crime,
To be by vertue ruin'd. For I know
Y'are not so various as to ebbe and flow
Ith' streame of fortune, whom each faithlesse winde
Distracts, and they who made her, fram'd her blinde.
Possession makes us poore. Should we obtaine
All those bright jems, for which ith' wealthy Maine,
The tann'd slave dives; or in one boundlesse chest
Imprison all the treasures of the West,
We still should want. Our better part's immence,
Not like th' inferiour, limited by sence.
Rich with a little, mutuall love can lift
Us to a greatnesse, whether chance or thrift
E're rais'd her servants. For though all were spent,
That can create anEuropein content.
Thus (Madam) whenCastaralends an eare
Soft to my hope, I Loves Philosopher,
Winne on her faith. For when I wondring stand
At th' intermingled beauty of her hand,
(Higher I dare not gaze) to this bright veine
I not ascribe the blood ofCharlemaine
Deriv'd by you to her. Or say there are
In that and th'otherMarmion,Rosse, andParr
Fitzhugh,Saint Quintin, and the rest of them
That adde such lustre to greatPembrokesstem.
My love is envious. WouldCastarawere
The daughter of some mountaine cottager,
Who with his toile worne out, could dying leave
Her no more dowre, than what she did receive
From bounteous nature. Her would I then lead
To th' Temple, rich in her owne wealth; her head
Crown'd with her haires faire treasure; diamonds in
Her brighter eyes; soft Ermines in her skin;
Each Indie in each cheeke. Then all who vaunt,
That fortune, them t' enrich, made others want,
Should set themselves out glorious in her stealth,
And trie if that, could parallel this wealth.
ToCastara.Departing upon the approach of Night.What should we feareCastara? The coole aire,That's falne in love, and wanton in thy haire,Will not betray our whispers. Should I stealeA Nectar'd kisse, the wind dares not revealeThe pleasure I possesse. The wind conspiresTo our blest interview, and in our firesBath's like a Salamander, and doth sip,LikeBacchusfrom the grape, life from thy lip.Nor thinke of nights approach. The worlds great eyeThough breaking Natures law, will us supplyWith his still flaming lampe: and to obeyOur chaste desires, fix here perpetuall day.But should he set, what rebell night dares rise,To be subdu'd ith' vict'ry of thy eyes?
ToCastara.Departing upon the approach of Night.What should we feareCastara? The coole aire,That's falne in love, and wanton in thy haire,Will not betray our whispers. Should I stealeA Nectar'd kisse, the wind dares not revealeThe pleasure I possesse. The wind conspiresTo our blest interview, and in our firesBath's like a Salamander, and doth sip,LikeBacchusfrom the grape, life from thy lip.Nor thinke of nights approach. The worlds great eyeThough breaking Natures law, will us supplyWith his still flaming lampe: and to obeyOur chaste desires, fix here perpetuall day.But should he set, what rebell night dares rise,To be subdu'd ith' vict'ry of thy eyes?
What should we feareCastara? The coole aire,That's falne in love, and wanton in thy haire,Will not betray our whispers. Should I stealeA Nectar'd kisse, the wind dares not revealeThe pleasure I possesse. The wind conspiresTo our blest interview, and in our firesBath's like a Salamander, and doth sip,LikeBacchusfrom the grape, life from thy lip.Nor thinke of nights approach. The worlds great eyeThough breaking Natures law, will us supplyWith his still flaming lampe: and to obeyOur chaste desires, fix here perpetuall day.But should he set, what rebell night dares rise,To be subdu'd ith' vict'ry of thy eyes?
What should we feareCastara? The coole aire,
That's falne in love, and wanton in thy haire,
Will not betray our whispers. Should I steale
A Nectar'd kisse, the wind dares not reveale
The pleasure I possesse. The wind conspires
To our blest interview, and in our fires
Bath's like a Salamander, and doth sip,
LikeBacchusfrom the grape, life from thy lip.
Nor thinke of nights approach. The worlds great eye
Though breaking Natures law, will us supply
With his still flaming lampe: and to obey
Our chaste desires, fix here perpetuall day.
But should he set, what rebell night dares rise,
To be subdu'd ith' vict'ry of thy eyes?
An Apparition.More welcome myCastara, then was lightTo the disordered Chaos. O what brightAnd nimble chariot brought thee through the aire?While the amazed stars to see so faireAnd pure a beauty from the earth arise,Chang'd all their glorious bodies into eyes.O let my zealous lip print on thy handThe story of my love, which there shall standA bright inscription to be read by none,But who as I love thee, and love but one.Why vanish you away? Or is my senseDeluded by my hope? O sweete offenceOf erring nature! And would heaven this hadBeene true; or that I thus were ever mad.
An Apparition.More welcome myCastara, then was lightTo the disordered Chaos. O what brightAnd nimble chariot brought thee through the aire?While the amazed stars to see so faireAnd pure a beauty from the earth arise,Chang'd all their glorious bodies into eyes.O let my zealous lip print on thy handThe story of my love, which there shall standA bright inscription to be read by none,But who as I love thee, and love but one.Why vanish you away? Or is my senseDeluded by my hope? O sweete offenceOf erring nature! And would heaven this hadBeene true; or that I thus were ever mad.
More welcome myCastara, then was lightTo the disordered Chaos. O what brightAnd nimble chariot brought thee through the aire?While the amazed stars to see so faireAnd pure a beauty from the earth arise,Chang'd all their glorious bodies into eyes.O let my zealous lip print on thy handThe story of my love, which there shall standA bright inscription to be read by none,But who as I love thee, and love but one.Why vanish you away? Or is my senseDeluded by my hope? O sweete offenceOf erring nature! And would heaven this hadBeene true; or that I thus were ever mad.
More welcome myCastara, then was light
To the disordered Chaos. O what bright
And nimble chariot brought thee through the aire?
While the amazed stars to see so faire
And pure a beauty from the earth arise,
Chang'd all their glorious bodies into eyes.
O let my zealous lip print on thy hand
The story of my love, which there shall stand
A bright inscription to be read by none,
But who as I love thee, and love but one.
Why vanish you away? Or is my sense
Deluded by my hope? O sweete offence
Of erring nature! And would heaven this had
Beene true; or that I thus were ever mad.
[16]To the Honourable Mr.Wm. E.Hee who is good is happy. Let the loudeArtillery of Heaven breake through a cloudeAnd dart its thunder at him; hee'le remaineUnmov'd, and nobler comfort entertaineIn welcomming th' approach of death; then viceEre found in her fictitious Paradise.Time mocks our youth, and (while we number pastDelights, and raise our appetite to tasteEnsuing) brings us to unflattered age.Where we are left to satisfie the rageOf threatning Death: Pompe, beauty, wealth, and allOur friendships, shrinking from the funerall.The thought of this begets that brave disdaineWith which thou view'st the world and makes those vaineTreasures of fancy, serious fooles so court,And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.What should we covet here? Why interposeA cloud twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature choseMans soule th' Exchecquer where she'd hoord her wealth,And lodge all her rich secrets; but by th' stealthOf our owne vanity, w'are left so poore,The creature meerely sensuall knowes more.The learn'dHalcyonby her wisedome findsA gentle season, when the seas and windsAre silenc't by a calme, and then brings forthThe happy miracle of her rare birth,Leaving with wonder all our arts possest,That view the architecture of her nest.Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestoweIncrease of knowledge on old minds, which growBy age to dotage: while the sensitivePart of the World in it's first strength doth live.Folly? what dost thou in thy power containeDeserves our study? Merchants plough the maineAnd bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more,By avarice in the possession poore.And yet that Idoll wealth we all admitInto the soules great temple. Busie witInvents new Orgies, fancy frames new ritesTo show it's superstition, anxious nightsAre watcht to win its favour: while the beastContent with Natures courtesie doth rest.Let man then boast no more a soule, since heHath lost that great prerogative. But thee(Whom Fortune hath exempted from the heardOf vulgar men, whom vertue hath prefer'dFarre higher than thy birth) I must commend,Rich in the purchase of so sweete a friend.And though my fate conducts me to the shadeOf humble quiet, my ambition paydeWith safe content, while a pure Virgin fameDoth raise me trophies inCastara'sname.No thought of glory swelling me aboveThe hope of being famed for vertuous love.Yet wish I thee, guided by the better starresTo purchase unsafe honour in the warresOr envied smiles at court; for thy great race,And merits, well may challenge th' highest place.Yet know, what busie path so-ere you treadTo greatnesse, you must sleepe among the dead.[16]To the Honourable my most honoured friend, Wm. E.Esquire. 1635.
[16]To the Honourable Mr.Wm. E.Hee who is good is happy. Let the loudeArtillery of Heaven breake through a cloudeAnd dart its thunder at him; hee'le remaineUnmov'd, and nobler comfort entertaineIn welcomming th' approach of death; then viceEre found in her fictitious Paradise.Time mocks our youth, and (while we number pastDelights, and raise our appetite to tasteEnsuing) brings us to unflattered age.Where we are left to satisfie the rageOf threatning Death: Pompe, beauty, wealth, and allOur friendships, shrinking from the funerall.The thought of this begets that brave disdaineWith which thou view'st the world and makes those vaineTreasures of fancy, serious fooles so court,And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.What should we covet here? Why interposeA cloud twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature choseMans soule th' Exchecquer where she'd hoord her wealth,And lodge all her rich secrets; but by th' stealthOf our owne vanity, w'are left so poore,The creature meerely sensuall knowes more.The learn'dHalcyonby her wisedome findsA gentle season, when the seas and windsAre silenc't by a calme, and then brings forthThe happy miracle of her rare birth,Leaving with wonder all our arts possest,That view the architecture of her nest.Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestoweIncrease of knowledge on old minds, which growBy age to dotage: while the sensitivePart of the World in it's first strength doth live.Folly? what dost thou in thy power containeDeserves our study? Merchants plough the maineAnd bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more,By avarice in the possession poore.And yet that Idoll wealth we all admitInto the soules great temple. Busie witInvents new Orgies, fancy frames new ritesTo show it's superstition, anxious nightsAre watcht to win its favour: while the beastContent with Natures courtesie doth rest.Let man then boast no more a soule, since heHath lost that great prerogative. But thee(Whom Fortune hath exempted from the heardOf vulgar men, whom vertue hath prefer'dFarre higher than thy birth) I must commend,Rich in the purchase of so sweete a friend.And though my fate conducts me to the shadeOf humble quiet, my ambition paydeWith safe content, while a pure Virgin fameDoth raise me trophies inCastara'sname.No thought of glory swelling me aboveThe hope of being famed for vertuous love.Yet wish I thee, guided by the better starresTo purchase unsafe honour in the warresOr envied smiles at court; for thy great race,And merits, well may challenge th' highest place.Yet know, what busie path so-ere you treadTo greatnesse, you must sleepe among the dead.[16]To the Honourable my most honoured friend, Wm. E.Esquire. 1635.
Hee who is good is happy. Let the loudeArtillery of Heaven breake through a cloudeAnd dart its thunder at him; hee'le remaineUnmov'd, and nobler comfort entertaineIn welcomming th' approach of death; then viceEre found in her fictitious Paradise.Time mocks our youth, and (while we number pastDelights, and raise our appetite to tasteEnsuing) brings us to unflattered age.Where we are left to satisfie the rageOf threatning Death: Pompe, beauty, wealth, and allOur friendships, shrinking from the funerall.The thought of this begets that brave disdaineWith which thou view'st the world and makes those vaineTreasures of fancy, serious fooles so court,And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.What should we covet here? Why interposeA cloud twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature choseMans soule th' Exchecquer where she'd hoord her wealth,And lodge all her rich secrets; but by th' stealthOf our owne vanity, w'are left so poore,The creature meerely sensuall knowes more.The learn'dHalcyonby her wisedome findsA gentle season, when the seas and windsAre silenc't by a calme, and then brings forthThe happy miracle of her rare birth,Leaving with wonder all our arts possest,That view the architecture of her nest.Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestoweIncrease of knowledge on old minds, which growBy age to dotage: while the sensitivePart of the World in it's first strength doth live.Folly? what dost thou in thy power containeDeserves our study? Merchants plough the maineAnd bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more,By avarice in the possession poore.And yet that Idoll wealth we all admitInto the soules great temple. Busie witInvents new Orgies, fancy frames new ritesTo show it's superstition, anxious nightsAre watcht to win its favour: while the beastContent with Natures courtesie doth rest.Let man then boast no more a soule, since heHath lost that great prerogative. But thee(Whom Fortune hath exempted from the heardOf vulgar men, whom vertue hath prefer'dFarre higher than thy birth) I must commend,Rich in the purchase of so sweete a friend.And though my fate conducts me to the shadeOf humble quiet, my ambition paydeWith safe content, while a pure Virgin fameDoth raise me trophies inCastara'sname.No thought of glory swelling me aboveThe hope of being famed for vertuous love.Yet wish I thee, guided by the better starresTo purchase unsafe honour in the warresOr envied smiles at court; for thy great race,And merits, well may challenge th' highest place.Yet know, what busie path so-ere you treadTo greatnesse, you must sleepe among the dead.
Hee who is good is happy. Let the loude
Artillery of Heaven breake through a cloude
And dart its thunder at him; hee'le remaine
Unmov'd, and nobler comfort entertaine
In welcomming th' approach of death; then vice
Ere 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 unflattered age.
Where we are left to satisfie the rage
Of threatning Death: Pompe, beauty, wealth, and all
Our friendships, shrinking from the funerall.
The thought of this begets that brave disdaine
With which thou view'st the world and makes those vaine
Treasures of fancy, serious fooles 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
Mans soule th' Exchecquer where she'd hoord her wealth,
And lodge all her rich secrets; but by th' stealth
Of our owne vanity, w'are left so poore,
The creature meerely sensuall knowes more.
The learn'dHalcyonby her wisedome finds
A gentle season, when the seas and winds
Are silenc't by a calme, and then brings forth
The happy miracle of her rare birth,
Leaving with wonder all our arts possest,
That view the architecture of her nest.
Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestowe
Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow
By age to dotage: while the sensitive
Part of the World in it's first strength doth live.
Folly? what dost thou in thy power containe
Deserves our study? Merchants plough the maine
And bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more,
By avarice in the possession poore.
And yet that Idoll wealth we all admit
Into the soules great temple. Busie wit
Invents new Orgies, fancy frames new rites
To show it's superstition, anxious nights
Are watcht to win its favour: while the beast
Content with Natures courtesie doth rest.
Let man then boast no more a soule, since he
Hath lost that great prerogative. But thee
(Whom Fortune hath exempted from the heard
Of vulgar men, whom vertue hath prefer'd
Farre higher than thy birth) I must commend,
Rich in the purchase of so sweete a friend.
And though my fate conducts me to the shade
Of humble quiet, my ambition payde
With safe content, while a pure Virgin fame
Doth raise me trophies inCastara'sname.
No thought of glory swelling me above
The hope of being famed for vertuous love.
Yet wish I thee, guided by the better starres
To purchase unsafe honour in the warres
Or envied smiles at court; for thy great race,
And merits, well may challenge th' highest place.
Yet know, what busie path so-ere you tread
To greatnesse, you must sleepe among the dead.
[16]To the Honourable my most honoured friend, Wm. E.Esquire. 1635.
[16]To the Honourable my most honoured friend, Wm. E.Esquire. 1635.
ToCastara,The vanity of Avarice.Harke? how the traytor wind doth courtThe Saylors to the maine;To make their avarice his sport?A tempest checks the fond disdaine,They beare a safe though humble port.Wee'le sit my love upon the shore,And while proud billowes riseTo warre against the skie, speake oreOur Loves so sacred misteries.And charme the Sea to th' calme it had before.Where's now my pride t' extend my fameWhere ever statues are?And purchase glory to my nameIn the smooth court or rugged warre?My love hath layd the Devill, I am tame.I'de rather like the violet growUnmarkt i'th shaded vale,Then on the hill those terrors knowAre breath'd forth by an angry gale,There is more pompe above, more sweete below.Love, thou divine Philosopher(While covetous Landlords rent,And Courtiers dignity preferre)Instructs us to a sweete content,Greatnesse it selfe, doth in it selfe interre.Castara, what is there aboveThe treasures we possesse?We two are all and one, wee moveLike starres in th' orbe of happinesse.All blessings are Epitomiz'd in Love.
ToCastara,The vanity of Avarice.Harke? how the traytor wind doth courtThe Saylors to the maine;To make their avarice his sport?A tempest checks the fond disdaine,They beare a safe though humble port.Wee'le sit my love upon the shore,And while proud billowes riseTo warre against the skie, speake oreOur Loves so sacred misteries.And charme the Sea to th' calme it had before.Where's now my pride t' extend my fameWhere ever statues are?And purchase glory to my nameIn the smooth court or rugged warre?My love hath layd the Devill, I am tame.I'de rather like the violet growUnmarkt i'th shaded vale,Then on the hill those terrors knowAre breath'd forth by an angry gale,There is more pompe above, more sweete below.Love, thou divine Philosopher(While covetous Landlords rent,And Courtiers dignity preferre)Instructs us to a sweete content,Greatnesse it selfe, doth in it selfe interre.Castara, what is there aboveThe treasures we possesse?We two are all and one, wee moveLike starres in th' orbe of happinesse.All blessings are Epitomiz'd in Love.
Harke? how the traytor wind doth courtThe Saylors to the maine;To make their avarice his sport?A tempest checks the fond disdaine,They beare a safe though humble port.
Harke? how the traytor wind doth court
The Saylors to the maine;
To make their avarice his sport?
A tempest checks the fond disdaine,
They beare a safe though humble port.
Wee'le sit my love upon the shore,And while proud billowes riseTo warre against the skie, speake oreOur Loves so sacred misteries.And charme the Sea to th' calme it had before.
Wee'le sit my love upon the shore,
And while proud billowes rise
To warre against the skie, speake ore
Our Loves so sacred misteries.
And charme the Sea to th' calme it had before.
Where's now my pride t' extend my fameWhere ever statues are?And purchase glory to my nameIn the smooth court or rugged warre?My love hath layd the Devill, I am tame.
Where's now my pride t' extend my fame
Where ever statues are?
And purchase glory to my name
In the smooth court or rugged warre?
My love hath layd the Devill, I am tame.
I'de rather like the violet growUnmarkt i'th shaded vale,Then on the hill those terrors knowAre breath'd forth by an angry gale,There is more pompe above, more sweete below.
I'de rather like the violet grow
Unmarkt i'th shaded vale,
Then on the hill those terrors know
Are breath'd forth by an angry gale,
There is more pompe above, more sweete below.
Love, thou divine Philosopher(While covetous Landlords rent,And Courtiers dignity preferre)Instructs us to a sweete content,Greatnesse it selfe, doth in it selfe interre.
Love, thou divine Philosopher
(While covetous Landlords rent,
And Courtiers dignity preferre)
Instructs us to a sweete content,
Greatnesse it selfe, doth in it selfe interre.
Castara, what is there aboveThe treasures we possesse?We two are all and one, wee moveLike starres in th' orbe of happinesse.All blessings are Epitomiz'd in Love.
Castara, what is there above
The treasures we possesse?
We two are all and one, wee move
Like starres in th' orbe of happinesse.
All blessings are Epitomiz'd in Love.
To my most honoured Friend and Kinsman, R. St.,Esquire.It shall not grieve me (friend) though what I writeBe held no wit at Court. If I delightSo farre my sullen Genius, as to raiseIt pleasure; I have money, wine, and bayesEnough to crowne me Poet. Let those wits,Who teach their Muse the art of ParasitsTo win on easie greatnesse; or the yongueSpruce Lawyer who's all impudence and tongueSweat to divulge their fames: thereby the oneGets fees; the other hyre, I'me best unknowne:Sweet silence I embrace thee, and thee FateWhich didst my birth so wisely moderate;That I by want am neither vilified,Nor yet by riches flatter'd into pride.Resolve me friend (for it must folly beOr else revenge 'gainst niggard Destinie,That makes some Poets raile?) Why are their timesSo steept in gall? Why so obrayde the times?As if no sin call'd downe heav'ns vengeance moreThen cause the world leaves some few writers poore?Tis true, thatChapmansreverend ashes mustLye rudely mingled with the vulgar dust,Cause carefull heyers the wealthy onely have;To build a glorious trouble o're the grave.Yet doe I not despaire, some one may beSo seriously devout to PoesieAs to translate his reliques, and finde roomeIn the warme Church, to build him up a tombe.SinceSpencerhath a Stone; andDraytonsbrowesStand petrified ith' wall, with Laurell bowesYet girt about; and nigh wiseHenriesherse,OldChaucergot a Marble for his verse.So courteous is Death; Death Poets bringsSo high a pompe, to lodge them with their Kings:Yet still they mutiny. If this man pleaseHis silly Patron with Hyperboles.Or most mysterious non-sence, give his braineBut the strapado in some wanton straine;Hee'le sweare the State lookes not on men of partsAnd, if but mention'd, slight all other Arts.Vaine ostentation! Let us set so justA rate on knowledge, that the world may trustThe Poets Sentence, and not still averEach Art is to it selfe a flatterer.I write to you Sir on this theame, becauseYour soule is cleare, and you observe the lawes,Of Poesie so justly, that I chuseYours onely the example to my muse.And till my browner haire be mixt with grayWithout a blush, Ile tread the sportive way,My Muse direct; A Poet youth may be,But age doth dote withoutPhilosophie.
To my most honoured Friend and Kinsman, R. St.,Esquire.It shall not grieve me (friend) though what I writeBe held no wit at Court. If I delightSo farre my sullen Genius, as to raiseIt pleasure; I have money, wine, and bayesEnough to crowne me Poet. Let those wits,Who teach their Muse the art of ParasitsTo win on easie greatnesse; or the yongueSpruce Lawyer who's all impudence and tongueSweat to divulge their fames: thereby the oneGets fees; the other hyre, I'me best unknowne:Sweet silence I embrace thee, and thee FateWhich didst my birth so wisely moderate;That I by want am neither vilified,Nor yet by riches flatter'd into pride.Resolve me friend (for it must folly beOr else revenge 'gainst niggard Destinie,That makes some Poets raile?) Why are their timesSo steept in gall? Why so obrayde the times?As if no sin call'd downe heav'ns vengeance moreThen cause the world leaves some few writers poore?Tis true, thatChapmansreverend ashes mustLye rudely mingled with the vulgar dust,Cause carefull heyers the wealthy onely have;To build a glorious trouble o're the grave.Yet doe I not despaire, some one may beSo seriously devout to PoesieAs to translate his reliques, and finde roomeIn the warme Church, to build him up a tombe.SinceSpencerhath a Stone; andDraytonsbrowesStand petrified ith' wall, with Laurell bowesYet girt about; and nigh wiseHenriesherse,OldChaucergot a Marble for his verse.So courteous is Death; Death Poets bringsSo high a pompe, to lodge them with their Kings:Yet still they mutiny. If this man pleaseHis silly Patron with Hyperboles.Or most mysterious non-sence, give his braineBut the strapado in some wanton straine;Hee'le sweare the State lookes not on men of partsAnd, if but mention'd, slight all other Arts.Vaine ostentation! Let us set so justA rate on knowledge, that the world may trustThe Poets Sentence, and not still averEach Art is to it selfe a flatterer.I write to you Sir on this theame, becauseYour soule is cleare, and you observe the lawes,Of Poesie so justly, that I chuseYours onely the example to my muse.And till my browner haire be mixt with grayWithout a blush, Ile tread the sportive way,My Muse direct; A Poet youth may be,But age doth dote withoutPhilosophie.
It shall not grieve me (friend) though what I writeBe held no wit at Court. If I delightSo farre my sullen Genius, as to raiseIt pleasure; I have money, wine, and bayesEnough to crowne me Poet. Let those wits,Who teach their Muse the art of ParasitsTo win on easie greatnesse; or the yongueSpruce Lawyer who's all impudence and tongueSweat to divulge their fames: thereby the oneGets fees; the other hyre, I'me best unknowne:Sweet silence I embrace thee, and thee FateWhich didst my birth so wisely moderate;That I by want am neither vilified,Nor yet by riches flatter'd into pride.Resolve me friend (for it must folly beOr else revenge 'gainst niggard Destinie,That makes some Poets raile?) Why are their timesSo steept in gall? Why so obrayde the times?As if no sin call'd downe heav'ns vengeance moreThen cause the world leaves some few writers poore?Tis true, thatChapmansreverend ashes mustLye rudely mingled with the vulgar dust,Cause carefull heyers the wealthy onely have;To build a glorious trouble o're the grave.Yet doe I not despaire, some one may beSo seriously devout to PoesieAs to translate his reliques, and finde roomeIn the warme Church, to build him up a tombe.SinceSpencerhath a Stone; andDraytonsbrowesStand petrified ith' wall, with Laurell bowesYet girt about; and nigh wiseHenriesherse,OldChaucergot a Marble for his verse.So courteous is Death; Death Poets bringsSo high a pompe, to lodge them with their Kings:Yet still they mutiny. If this man pleaseHis silly Patron with Hyperboles.Or most mysterious non-sence, give his braineBut the strapado in some wanton straine;Hee'le sweare the State lookes not on men of partsAnd, if but mention'd, slight all other Arts.Vaine ostentation! Let us set so justA rate on knowledge, that the world may trustThe Poets Sentence, and not still averEach Art is to it selfe a flatterer.I write to you Sir on this theame, becauseYour soule is cleare, and you observe the lawes,Of Poesie so justly, that I chuseYours onely the example to my muse.And till my browner haire be mixt with grayWithout a blush, Ile tread the sportive way,My Muse direct; A Poet youth may be,But age doth dote withoutPhilosophie.
It shall not grieve me (friend) though what I write
Be held no wit at Court. If I delight
So farre my sullen Genius, as to raise
It pleasure; I have money, wine, and bayes
Enough to crowne me Poet. Let those wits,
Who teach their Muse the art of Parasits
To win on easie greatnesse; or the yongue
Spruce Lawyer who's all impudence and tongue
Sweat to divulge their fames: thereby the one
Gets fees; the other hyre, I'me best unknowne:
Sweet silence I embrace thee, and thee Fate
Which didst my birth so wisely moderate;
That I by want am neither vilified,
Nor yet by riches flatter'd into pride.
Resolve me friend (for it must folly be
Or else revenge 'gainst niggard Destinie,
That makes some Poets raile?) Why are their times
So steept in gall? Why so obrayde the times?
As if no sin call'd downe heav'ns vengeance more
Then cause the world leaves some few writers poore?
Tis true, thatChapmansreverend ashes must
Lye rudely mingled with the vulgar dust,
Cause carefull heyers the wealthy onely have;
To build a glorious trouble o're the grave.
Yet doe I not despaire, some one may be
So seriously devout to Poesie
As to translate his reliques, and finde roome
In the warme Church, to build him up a tombe.
SinceSpencerhath a Stone; andDraytonsbrowes
Stand petrified ith' wall, with Laurell bowes
Yet girt about; and nigh wiseHenriesherse,
OldChaucergot a Marble for his verse.
So courteous is Death; Death Poets brings
So high a pompe, to lodge them with their Kings:
Yet still they mutiny. If this man please
His silly Patron with Hyperboles.
Or most mysterious non-sence, give his braine
But the strapado in some wanton straine;
Hee'le sweare the State lookes not on men of parts
And, if but mention'd, slight all other Arts.
Vaine ostentation! Let us set so just
A rate on knowledge, that the world may trust
The Poets Sentence, and not still aver
Each Art is to it selfe a flatterer.
I write to you Sir on this theame, because
Your soule is cleare, and you observe the lawes,
Of Poesie so justly, that I chuse
Yours onely the example to my muse.
And till my browner haire be mixt with gray
Without a blush, Ile tread the sportive way,
My Muse direct; A Poet youth may be,
But age doth dote withoutPhilosophie.