Chapter 16

ToCastara,How happy, though in an obscure fortune.Were we by fate throwne downe below our feare;Could we be poore? Or question Natures careIn our provision? She who doth affordA feather'd garment fit for every bird,And onely voyce enough t'expresse delight.She who apparels Lillies in their white,As if in that she'de teach mans duller sence,Wh'are highest, should be so in innocence.She who in damaske doth attire the Rose,(And man t'himselfe a mockery to propose,'Mong whom the humblest Judges grow to fit)She who in purple cloathes the Violet:If thus she cares for things even voyd of sence;Shall we suspect in us her providence?ToCastara.What can the freedome of our love enthrall?Castarawere we dispossest of allThe gifts of fortune; richer yet than sheCan make her slaves, wee'd in each other be.Love in himselfe's a world. If we should haveA mansion but in some forsaken cave;Wee'd smooth misfortune: and our selves thinke thenRetir'd like Princes from the noise of men,To breath a while unflatter'd. Each wild beast,That should the silence of our cell infest,With clamor, seeking prey; Wee'd fancie wereNought but an avaritious Courtier.Wealth's but opinion. Who thinks others moreOf treasures have, than we, is[27]onely poore.[27]he's. 1634.On the death of the Right Honourable,GeorgeEarle of S.Bright Saint, thy pardon, if my sadder verse,Appeare in sighing o're thy glorious hearse,To envie heaven. For fame it selfe now wearesGriefes Livery, and onely speaks in teares.And pardon youCastara, if a whileYour memory I banish from my stile;When I have payd his death the tribute due,Of sorrow, I'le returne to Love and you.Is there a name likeTalbot, which a showreCan force from every eye? And hath even powreTo alter natures course? How else should allRunne wilde with mourning, and distracted fall:Th' illiterate vulgar in a well tun'd breath,Lament their losse, and learnedly chide death,For its[28]bold rape, while the sad Poets songIs yet unheard, as if griefe had no tongue.Th'amaz'd marriner having lost his wayIn the tempestuous desart of the Sea,Lookes up but findes no starres. They all conspireTo darke themselves, t'enlighten this new fire.The learn'd Astronomer with daring eye,Searching to tracke the Spheres through which you flie,(Most beauteous soule) doth in his journey faile,And blushing, sayes, the subtlest art is fraile,And but truths counterset. Your flight doth teach,Faire Vertue hath an Orbe beyond his reach.But I grow dull with sorrow. Unkinde FateTo play the tyrant and subvert the stateOf setled goodnesse. Who shall henceforth standA pure example to enforme the LandOf her loose riot[29]? Who shall counter-checkeThe wanton pride of greatnesse; and directStraid honour in the true magnificke way?Whose life shall shew what triumph 'tis t'obeyThe hard commands of reason? And how sweetThe nuptials are, when wealth and learning meet?Who will with silent piety confuteAtheisticke Sophistry, and by the fruiteApprove Religions tree? Who'le teach his bloodA Virgin law and dare be great and good?Who will despise his stiles? And nobly weighIn judgements ballance, that his honour'd clayHath no advantage by them? Who will liveSo innocently pious, as to giveThe world no scandall? Who'le himself deny,And to warme passion a cold martyr dye?My griefe distracts me. If my zeale hath said,What checks the living: know I serve the dead.The dead, who needs no monumentall vaults,With his pale ashes to intombe his faults.Whose sins beget no libels, whom the pooreFor benefit; for worth, the rich adore.Who liv'd a solitaryPhœnixfreeFrom the commerce with mischiefe, joy'd to beStill gazing heaven-ward, where his thoughts did move,Fed with the sacred fire of zealous love.Alone he flourisht, 'till the fatall houreDid summon him, when gathering from each flowreTheir vertuous odours, from his perfum'd nest,He tooke his flight to everlasting rest.There shine great Lord, and with propitious eyes,Looke downe, and smile upon this sacrifice.[28]his. 1634, 1635.[29]wit. 1634.To my worthy CousinMr. E. C.In praise of the City life, in the long Vacation.I Like the greene plush which your meadows weare;I praise your pregnant fields, which duly beareTheir wealthy burden to th'industrious Bore.Nor doe I disallow that who are pooreIn minde and fortune, thither should retire:But hate that he who's warme with[30]holy fireOf any knowledge, and 'mong-us may feastOn Nectar'd wit, should turne himselfe t' a beast,And graze ith' Country. Why did nature wrongSo much her paines, as to give you a tongueAnd fluent language; If converse you holdWith Oxen in the stall, and sheep ith' fold?But now it's long Vacation you will sayThe towne is empty, and who ever mayTo th' pleasure of his Country home repaire,Flyes from th' infection of ourLondonaire.In this your errour. Now's the time aloneTo live here; when the City Dame is gone,T' her house atBrandford; for beyond that sheImagines there's no land, butBarbary,Where lies her husbands Factor. When from henceRid is the Country Justice whose non-senceCorrupted had the language of the Inne,Where he and his horse litter'd: We beginneTo live in silence, when the noyse oth' BenchNot deafensWestminster, nor corrupt FrenchWalkesFleet-streetin her gowne. Ruffes of the Barre,By the Vacations powre translated are,To Cut-worke bands. And who were busie here,Are gone to sow sedition in the shire.The aire by this is purg'd, and the Termes strife,Thus fled the City: we the civill lifeLead happily. When in the gentle way,Of noble mirth, I have the long liv'd day,Contracted to a moment: I retire.To myCastara, and meet such a fireOf mutuall love: that if the City wereInfected, that would purifie the ayre.[30]th' holy fire. 1634.Loves AniversarieTo the Sunne.Thou art return'd (great Light) to that blest houreIn which I first by marriage, sacred power,Joyn'd withCastarahearts: And as the sameThy lustre is, as then, so is our flame:Which had increast, but that by loves decree,'Twas such at first, it ne're could greater be.But tell me (glorious Lampe) in thy survey,Of things below thee, what did not decayBy age to weaknesse? I since that have seeneThe Rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow greeneAnd wither, and the beauty of the fieldWith Winter wrinkled. Even thy selfe dost yeeldSomething to time, and to thy grave fall nigher.But vertuous love is one sweet endlesse fire.Against them who lay unchastity to the sex of Women.They meet but with unwholesome Springs,And Summers which infectious are:They heare but when the Meremaid sings,And onely see the falling starre:Who ever dare,Affirme no woman chaste and faire.Goe cure your feavers: and you'le sayThe Dog-dayes scorch not all the yeare:In Copper Mines no longer stay,But travell to the West, and thereThe right ones see:And grant all gold's not Alchimie.What mad man 'cause the glow-wormes flameIs cold, sweares there's no warmth in fire?Cause some make forfeit of their name,And slave themselves to mans desire;Shall the sex freeFrom guilt, damn'd to the bondage be?Nor grieveCastara, though 'twere fraile,Thy Vertue then would brighter shine,When thy example should prevaile,And every womans faith be thine.And were there none:'Tis Majesty to rule alone.To the Right Honourable and excellently learned,WilliamEarle ofSt.My Lord,The Laurell doth your reverend temples wreathAs aptly now, as when your youth did breathThose tragicke raptures which your name shall saveFrom the blacke edict of a tyrant grave.Nor shall your Day ere set, till the Sunne shallFrom the blind heavens like a cynder fall;And all the elements intend their strife,To ruine what they fram'd: Then your fames life,When desp'rate Time lies gasping, shall expireAttended by the world ith' generall fire.Fame lengthens thus her selfe. And I to treadYour steps to glory, search among the dead,Where Vertue lies obscur'd; that as I giveLife to her tombe, I spight of time may live.Now I resolve in triumph of my verse,To bring greatTalbotfrom that forren hearse,Which yet doth to her fright his dust enclose:Then to singHerbertwho so glorious rose,With the fourthEdward, that his faith doth shineYet in the faith of noblestPembrookesline.Sometimes my swelling spirits I prepareTo speake the mightyPercy, neerest heire,In merits as in blood, toCharlesthe great:ThenDarbiesworth and greatnesse to repeat:OrMorleyeshonour, orMounteaglesfame,Whose valour lies eterniz'd in his name.But while I thinke to sing those of my bloud,And myCastara's; Loves unruly floodBreakes in, and beares away what ever stands,Built by my busie fancy on the sands.ToCastara,Upon an embrace.'Bout th' Husband Oke, the VineThus wreathes to kisse his leavy face:Their streames thus Rivers joyne,And lose themselves in the embrace.But Trees want sence when they infold,And Waters when they meet, are cold.Thus Turtles bill, and groneTheir loves into each others eare:Two flames thus burne in one,When their curl'd heads to heaven they reare.But Birds want soule though not desire:And flames materiall soone expire.If not prophane; we'll sayWhen Angels close, their joyes are such.For we not love obeyThat's bastard to a fleshly touch.Let's closeCastarathen, since thusWe patterne Angels, and they us.To the Honourable, G. T.Let not thy grones force Eccho from her cave,Or interrupt her weeping o're that wave,Which lastNarcissuskist: let no darke groveBe taught to whisper stories of thy love.What though the wind be turn'd? Canst thou not saileBy vertue of a cleane contrary gale,Into some other Port? Where thou wilt find,It was thy betterGeniuschang'd the wind,To steere thee to some Iland in the West,For wealth and pleasure, that transcends thy East.ThoughAstrodora, like a sullen starreEclipse her selfe: Ith' sky of beauty areTen thousand other fires, some bright as she.And who with milder beames, may shine on thee.Nor yet doth this Eclipse beare a portent,That should affright the world: The firmamentEnjoyes the light it did, a Sunne as cleare,And the young Spring doth like a Bride appeare,As fairely wed to theThessaliangroveAs e're it was; though she and you not love.And we two, who like two bright stars have shin'dIth' heaven of friendship, are as firmely joyn'dAs bloud and love first fram'd us. And to beLov'd, and thought worthy to be lov'd by thee,Is to be glorious. Since fame cannot lendAn honour, equals that ofTalbotsfriend.Nor envie me that myCastara'sflameYeelds me a constant warmth: Though first I cameTo marriage happy Ilands: Seas to theeWill yeeld as smooth a way, and winds as free.Which shall conduct thee (if hope may divine;)To this delicious port: and make love thine.ToCastara.The reward of Innocent Love.We saw and woo'd each others eyes,My soule contracted then with thine,And both burnt in one sacrifice.By which our Marriage grew divine.Let wilder youth, whose soule is sense,Prophane the Temple of delight.And purchase endlesse penitence,With thestolenpleasure of one night.Time's ever ours, while we dispiseThe sensuall idoll of our clay.For though the Sunne doe set and rise,We joy one everlasting day.Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,While each of us shine innocent.The troubled streame is still impure,With vertue flies away content.And though opinion often erre,Wee'le court the modest smile of fame.For sinnes blacke danger circles her,Who hath infection in her name.Thus when to one darke silent roome,Death shall our loving coffins thrust;Fame will build columnes on our tombe,And adde a perfume to our dust.To my noble Friend, SirI. P.Knight.Sir,Though my deareTalbotsFate exact, a sadAnd heavy brow; my verse shall not be cladFor him this houre in mourning: I will writeTo you the glory of a pompous night,Which none (except sobriety) who witOr cloathes could boast, but freely did admit.I (who still sinne for company) was thereAnd tasted of the glorious supper, whereMeate was the least of wonder. Though the nestOth'Phœnixrifled seem'd t'amaze the feast,And th' Ocean left so poore that it aloneCould since vant wretched herring and poore John.Lucullussurfets, were but types of this,And whatsoever riot mention'd isIn story, did but the dullZanyeplay,To this proud night; which rather wee'le terme day:For th'artificiall lights so thicke were set,That bright Sun seem'd this to counterfeitBut seven (whom whether we should Sages callOr deadly sinnes, Ile not dispute) were allInvited to this pompe. And yet I darePawne my lov'd Muse, th'Hungariandid prepareNot halfe that quantity of victuall, whenHe layd his happy siege toNortlinghen.The mist of the perfumes was breath'd so thickeThatLinxhimselfe thought his sight fam'd so quicke,Had there scarce spyed one sober: For the wealthOf theCanarieswas exhaust, the healthOf his good Majestye to celebrate,Who'le judge them loyall subjects without that:Yet they, who some fond privilege to mainteine,Would have rebeld; their best freehold, their braineSurrender'd there; and five fifteenes did payTo drink his happy life and reigne. O dayIt was thy piety to flye; th' hadst beeneFound accessary else to this fond sinne.But I forget to speake each stratagemBy which the dishes enter'd, and in themEach luscious miracle, As if more bookesHad written beene oth' mystery of CookesThen the Philos'phers stone, here we did seeAll wonders in the kitchin Alchimy:But Ile not have you there, before you partYou shall have something of another art.A banquet raining downe so fast, the goodOld Patriarch would have thought a generall flood:Heaven open'd and from thence a mighty showreOf Amber comfits it sweete selfe did powreUpon our heads, and Suckets from our eyeLike thickend clouds did steale away the sky,That it was question'd whether heaven wereBlack-fryers, and each starre a confectioner;But I too long detaine you at a feastYou hap'ly surfet of; now every guestIs reeld downe to his coach; I licence craveSir, but to kisse your hands, and take my leave.To The Right HonourableArchibaldEarle ofAr.If your example be obey'dThe serious few will live ith' silent shade:And not indanger by the windOr Sunshine, the complexion of their mind:Whose beauty weares so cleare a skinThat it decayes with the least taint of sin.Vice growes by custome, nor dare weReject it as a slave, where it breathes free,And is no priviledge denyed;Nor if advanc'd to higher place envyed.Wherefore your Lordship in your selfe(Not lancht farre in the maine, nor nigh the shelfeOf humbler fortune) lives at ease,Safe from the rocks oth' shore, and stormes oth' Seas.Your soule's a well built City, whereThere's such munition, that no war breeds feare:No rebels wilde destractions move;For you the heads have crusht; Rage, Envy, Love.And therefore you defiance bidTo open enmity, or mischiefe hidIn fawning hate and supple pride,Who are on every corner fortifide.Your youth not rudely led by rageOf blood, is now the story of your ageWhich without boast you may averre'Fore blackest danger, glory did prefer:Glory not purchast by the breathOf Sycophants, but by encountring death.Yet wildnesse nor the feare of lawesDid make your fight, but justice of the cause.For but mad prodigals they areOf fortitude, who for it selfe love warre.When well made peace hath clos'd the eyesOf discord, loath did not your youth surprize.Your life as well as powre, did aweThe bad, and to the good was the best law:When most men vertue did pursueIn hope by it to grow in fame like you.Nor when you did to court repaire,Did you your manners alter with the ayre.You did your modesty retaineYour faithfull dealing, the same tongue and braine.Nor did all the soft flattery thereInchant you so, but still you truth could heare.And though your roofes were richly guilt,The basis was on no wards ruine built.Nor were your vassals made a prey,And forc't to curse the Coronation day.And though no bravery was knowneTo out-shine yours, you onely spent your owne.For 'twas the indulgence of fate,To give y' a moderate minde, and bounteous state?But I, my Lord, who have no friendOf fortune, must begin where you doe end.'Tis dang'rous to approach the fireOf action; nor is't safe, farre to retire.Yet better lost ith' multitudeOf private men, then on the state t'intrude,And hazard for a doubtfull smile,My stocke of same, and inward peace to spoile.Ile therefore nigh some murm'ring brookeThat wantons through my meddowes, with a bookeWith myCastara, or some friend,My youth not guilty of ambition spend.To my own shade (if fate permit)Ile whisper some soft musique of my wit.And flatter to my selfe, Ile seeBy that, strange motion steale into the tree.But still my first and chiefest careShall be t'appease offended heaven with prayer:And in such mold my thoughts to cast,That each day shall be spent as 'twere my lastHow ere it's sweete lust to obey,Vertue though rugged, is the safest way.An Elegy upon The HonourableHenry Cambell,sonne to the Earle ofArg.Its false Arithmaticke to say thy breathExpir'd to soone, or irreligious deathProphan'd thy holy youth. For if thy yearesBe number'd by thy vertues or our teares,Thou didst the oldMethusalemout-live.Though Time, but twenty yeares account can giveOf thy abode on earth, yet every houreOf thy brave youth by vertues wondrous powreWas lengthen'd to a yeare. Each well-spent dayKeepes young the body, but the soule makes gray.Such miracles workes goodnesse: and behindTh'ast left to us such stories of thy mindeFit for example; that when them we read,We envy earth the treasure of the dead.Why doe the sinfull riot and surviveThe feavers of their surfets? Why aliveIs yet disorder'd greatnesse, and all theyWho the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey?Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the nightWith cheats and imprecations? Why is lightLooked on by those whose breath may poyson it:Who sold the vigor of their strength and witTo buy diseases: and thou, who faire truthAnd vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth?But Ile not question fate. Heaven doth conveighThose first from the darke prison of their clayWho are most fit for heaven. Thou in warreHadst tane degrees, those dangers felt, which areThe props on which peace safely doth subsistAnd through the Cannons blew and horrid mistHadst brought her light: And now wert so compleatThat naught but death did want to make thee great.Thy death was timely then bright soule to thee,And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not. 'Twas weWho dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increaseOf reall glory both in warre and peace,We all did share: and thou away we feareDidst with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare.Each then be his owne mourner, Wee'le to theeWrite hymnes, upon the world an Elegie.ToCastara.Why should we feare to melt away in death;May we but dye together. When beneathIn a coole vault we sleepe, the world will proveReligious, and call it the shrine of Love.There, when oth' wedding eve some beautious maid,Suspitious of the faith of man, hath paidThe tribute of her vowes; oth' sudden sheeTwo violets sprouting from the tombe will see:And cry out, ye sweet emblems of their zealeWho live below, sprang ye up to revealeThe story of our future joyes, how weThe faithfull patterns of their love shall be?If not; hang downe your heads opprest with dew,And I will weepe and wither hence with you.ToCastara,Of what we were before our creation.WhenPelionwondring saw, that raine which fellBut now from angry Heaven, to Heaven ward swell:When th' Indian Ocean did the wanton play,Mingling its billowes with the Balticke sea:And the whole earth was water: O where thenWere weCastara? In the fate of menLost underneath the waves? Or to beguileHeaven's justice, lurkt we inNoahsfloating Isle?We had no being then. This fleshly frameWed to a soule, long after, hither cameA stranger to it selfe. Those moneths that wereBut the last age, no news of us did heare.What pompe is then in us? Who th' other dayWere nothing; and in triumph now, but clay.To the Moment last past.O Whither dost thou flye? Cannot my vowIntreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but now,And thou art gone: like ships which plough the Sea,And leave no print for man to tracke their way.O unseene wealth! who thee did husband, canOut-vie the jewels of the Ocean,The mines of th' earth! One sigh well spent in theeHad beene a purchase for eternity!We will not loose thee then.Castara, whereShall we finde out his hidden sepulcher;And wee'le revive him. Not the cruell stealthOf fate shall rob us, of so great a wealth.Undone in thrift! while we besought his stay,Ten of his fellow moments fled away.ToCastara.Of the knowledge of Love.Where sleepes the North-wind when the South inspiresLife in the spring, and gathers into quiresThe scatter'd Nightingales; whose subtle earesHeard first th' harmonious language of the Spheares;Whence hath the stone Magneticke force t'allureTh' enamour'd iron; From a seed impureOr naturall did first the Mandrake grow;What powre ith' Ocean makes it ebbe and flow;What strange materials is the azure skyeCompacted of; of what its[31]brightest eyeThe ever flaming Sunne; what people areIn th'unknowne world; what worlds in every star;Let curious fancies at this secret rove;Castarawhat we know, wee'le practise, Love.[31]her. 1635.[32]To the Right Honourable the Countesse ofC.Madam,Should the coldMuscovit, whose furre and stoveCan scarse prepare him heate enough for love,But view the wonder of your presence, heWould scorne his winters sharpest injury:And trace the naked groves, till he found bayseTo write the beautious triumphs of your prayse.As a dull Poet even he would say,Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them dayTill that bright minute; that he now admiresNo more why the coy Spring so soone retiresFrom their unhappy clyme: It doth pursueThe Sun, and he derives his light from you.Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick SeaIs set at freedome, while the yce awayDoth melt at your approach; how by so faireHarmonious beauty, their rude manners areReduc't to order; how to them you bringThe wealthiest mines below, above the Spring.Thus would his wonder speake. For he would wantReligion to beleeve, there were a SaintWithin, and all he saw was but the shrine.But I here pay my vowes to the devinePure essence there inclos'd, which if it wereNot hid in a faire cloud but might appeareIn its full lustre, would make Nature liveIn a state equall to her primitive.But sweetly thats obscur'd. Yet though our eyeCannot the splendor of your soule descryIn true perfection, by a glimmering light,Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how brightThe Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkindEclipse, or else our selves for being blinde.How hastily doth Nature build up manTo leave him so imperfect? For he canSee nought beyond his sence; she doth controuleSo farre his sight, he nere discern'd a soule.For had yours beene the object of his eye;It had turn'd wonder to Idolatry.[32]To the Right Honourable, my very good Lady, the Countesse ofC. 1635.The harmony of Love.Amphion, O thou holy shade!BringOrpheusup with thee:That wonder may you both invade,Hearing Loves harmony.You who are soule, not rudely madeUp, with Materiall eares,And fit to reach the musique of these spheares.Harke! whenCastara'sorbs doe moveBy my first moving eyes,How great the Symphony of Love,But 'tis the destiniesWill not so farre my prayer approve,To bring you hither, hereLest you meete heaven, for Elizium there.Tis no dull Sublunary flameBurnes in her heart and mine.But something more, then hath a name.So subtle and divine,We know not why, nor how it came.Which shall shine bright, till sheAnd the whole world of love, expire with me.To my honoured friend SirEd. P.Knight.You'd leave the silence in which safe we are,To listen to the noyse of warre;And walke those rugged paths, the factious tread,Who by the number of the deadReckon their glories, and thinke greatnesse stoodUnsafe, till it was built on blood.Secure ith' wall our Seas and ships provide(Abhorring wars so barb'rous prideAnd honour bought with slaughter) in contentLets breath though humble, innocent.Folly and madnesse! Since 'tis ods we nereSee the fresh youth of the next yeare.Perhaps not the chast morne, her selfe discloseAgaine, t'out-blush th' æmulous rose,Why doth ambition so the mind distresseTo make us scorne what we possesse?And looke so farre before us? Since all weCan hope, is varied misery?Goe find some whispering shade neareArneorPoe,And gently 'mong their violets throwYour wearyed limbs, and see if all those faireEnchantments can charme griefe or care?Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when youThe ruin'd Capitoll shall viewAnd statues, a disorder'd heape; you canNot cure yet the disease of man,And banish your owne thoughts. Goe travaile whereAnother Sun and Starres appeare,And land not toucht by any covetous fleet,And yet even there your selfe you'le meet.Stay here then, and while curious exiles findNew toyes for a fantastique mind;Enjoy at home what's reall: here the SpringBy her aeriall quires doth singAs sweetly to you, as if you were laidUnder the learn'dThessalianshade,Direct your eye-sight inward, and you'le findA thousand regions in your mindYet undiscover'd. Travell them, and beExpert in home Cosmographie.This you may doe safe both from rocke and shelfe:Man's a whole world within him selfe.

Were we by fate throwne downe below our feare;Could we be poore? Or question Natures careIn our provision? She who doth affordA feather'd garment fit for every bird,And onely voyce enough t'expresse delight.She who apparels Lillies in their white,As if in that she'de teach mans duller sence,Wh'are highest, should be so in innocence.She who in damaske doth attire the Rose,(And man t'himselfe a mockery to propose,'Mong whom the humblest Judges grow to fit)She who in purple cloathes the Violet:If thus she cares for things even voyd of sence;Shall we suspect in us her providence?

Were we by fate throwne downe below our feare;

Could we be poore? Or question Natures care

In our provision? She who doth afford

A feather'd garment fit for every bird,

And onely voyce enough t'expresse delight.

She who apparels Lillies in their white,

As if in that she'de teach mans duller sence,

Wh'are highest, should be so in innocence.

She who in damaske doth attire the Rose,

(And man t'himselfe a mockery to propose,

'Mong whom the humblest Judges grow to fit)

She who in purple cloathes the Violet:

If thus she cares for things even voyd of sence;

Shall we suspect in us her providence?

ToCastara.What can the freedome of our love enthrall?Castarawere we dispossest of allThe gifts of fortune; richer yet than sheCan make her slaves, wee'd in each other be.Love in himselfe's a world. If we should haveA mansion but in some forsaken cave;Wee'd smooth misfortune: and our selves thinke thenRetir'd like Princes from the noise of men,To breath a while unflatter'd. Each wild beast,That should the silence of our cell infest,With clamor, seeking prey; Wee'd fancie wereNought but an avaritious Courtier.Wealth's but opinion. Who thinks others moreOf treasures have, than we, is[27]onely poore.[27]he's. 1634.

What can the freedome of our love enthrall?Castarawere we dispossest of allThe gifts of fortune; richer yet than sheCan make her slaves, wee'd in each other be.Love in himselfe's a world. If we should haveA mansion but in some forsaken cave;Wee'd smooth misfortune: and our selves thinke thenRetir'd like Princes from the noise of men,To breath a while unflatter'd. Each wild beast,That should the silence of our cell infest,With clamor, seeking prey; Wee'd fancie wereNought but an avaritious Courtier.Wealth's but opinion. Who thinks others moreOf treasures have, than we, is[27]onely poore.

What can the freedome of our love enthrall?

Castarawere we dispossest of all

The gifts of fortune; richer yet than she

Can make her slaves, wee'd in each other be.

Love in himselfe's a world. If we should have

A mansion but in some forsaken cave;

Wee'd smooth misfortune: and our selves thinke then

Retir'd like Princes from the noise of men,

To breath a while unflatter'd. Each wild beast,

That should the silence of our cell infest,

With clamor, seeking prey; Wee'd fancie were

Nought but an avaritious Courtier.

Wealth's but opinion. Who thinks others more

Of treasures have, than we, is[27]onely poore.

[27]he's. 1634.

On the death of the Right Honourable,GeorgeEarle of S.Bright Saint, thy pardon, if my sadder verse,Appeare in sighing o're thy glorious hearse,To envie heaven. For fame it selfe now wearesGriefes Livery, and onely speaks in teares.And pardon youCastara, if a whileYour memory I banish from my stile;When I have payd his death the tribute due,Of sorrow, I'le returne to Love and you.Is there a name likeTalbot, which a showreCan force from every eye? And hath even powreTo alter natures course? How else should allRunne wilde with mourning, and distracted fall:Th' illiterate vulgar in a well tun'd breath,Lament their losse, and learnedly chide death,For its[28]bold rape, while the sad Poets songIs yet unheard, as if griefe had no tongue.Th'amaz'd marriner having lost his wayIn the tempestuous desart of the Sea,Lookes up but findes no starres. They all conspireTo darke themselves, t'enlighten this new fire.The learn'd Astronomer with daring eye,Searching to tracke the Spheres through which you flie,(Most beauteous soule) doth in his journey faile,And blushing, sayes, the subtlest art is fraile,And but truths counterset. Your flight doth teach,Faire Vertue hath an Orbe beyond his reach.But I grow dull with sorrow. Unkinde FateTo play the tyrant and subvert the stateOf setled goodnesse. Who shall henceforth standA pure example to enforme the LandOf her loose riot[29]? Who shall counter-checkeThe wanton pride of greatnesse; and directStraid honour in the true magnificke way?Whose life shall shew what triumph 'tis t'obeyThe hard commands of reason? And how sweetThe nuptials are, when wealth and learning meet?Who will with silent piety confuteAtheisticke Sophistry, and by the fruiteApprove Religions tree? Who'le teach his bloodA Virgin law and dare be great and good?Who will despise his stiles? And nobly weighIn judgements ballance, that his honour'd clayHath no advantage by them? Who will liveSo innocently pious, as to giveThe world no scandall? Who'le himself deny,And to warme passion a cold martyr dye?My griefe distracts me. If my zeale hath said,What checks the living: know I serve the dead.The dead, who needs no monumentall vaults,With his pale ashes to intombe his faults.Whose sins beget no libels, whom the pooreFor benefit; for worth, the rich adore.Who liv'd a solitaryPhœnixfreeFrom the commerce with mischiefe, joy'd to beStill gazing heaven-ward, where his thoughts did move,Fed with the sacred fire of zealous love.Alone he flourisht, 'till the fatall houreDid summon him, when gathering from each flowreTheir vertuous odours, from his perfum'd nest,He tooke his flight to everlasting rest.There shine great Lord, and with propitious eyes,Looke downe, and smile upon this sacrifice.[28]his. 1634, 1635.[29]wit. 1634.

Bright Saint, thy pardon, if my sadder verse,Appeare in sighing o're thy glorious hearse,To envie heaven. For fame it selfe now wearesGriefes Livery, and onely speaks in teares.And pardon youCastara, if a whileYour memory I banish from my stile;When I have payd his death the tribute due,Of sorrow, I'le returne to Love and you.Is there a name likeTalbot, which a showreCan force from every eye? And hath even powreTo alter natures course? How else should allRunne wilde with mourning, and distracted fall:Th' illiterate vulgar in a well tun'd breath,Lament their losse, and learnedly chide death,For its[28]bold rape, while the sad Poets songIs yet unheard, as if griefe had no tongue.Th'amaz'd marriner having lost his wayIn the tempestuous desart of the Sea,Lookes up but findes no starres. They all conspireTo darke themselves, t'enlighten this new fire.The learn'd Astronomer with daring eye,Searching to tracke the Spheres through which you flie,(Most beauteous soule) doth in his journey faile,And blushing, sayes, the subtlest art is fraile,And but truths counterset. Your flight doth teach,Faire Vertue hath an Orbe beyond his reach.But I grow dull with sorrow. Unkinde FateTo play the tyrant and subvert the stateOf setled goodnesse. Who shall henceforth standA pure example to enforme the LandOf her loose riot[29]? Who shall counter-checkeThe wanton pride of greatnesse; and directStraid honour in the true magnificke way?Whose life shall shew what triumph 'tis t'obeyThe hard commands of reason? And how sweetThe nuptials are, when wealth and learning meet?Who will with silent piety confuteAtheisticke Sophistry, and by the fruiteApprove Religions tree? Who'le teach his bloodA Virgin law and dare be great and good?Who will despise his stiles? And nobly weighIn judgements ballance, that his honour'd clayHath no advantage by them? Who will liveSo innocently pious, as to giveThe world no scandall? Who'le himself deny,And to warme passion a cold martyr dye?My griefe distracts me. If my zeale hath said,What checks the living: know I serve the dead.The dead, who needs no monumentall vaults,With his pale ashes to intombe his faults.Whose sins beget no libels, whom the pooreFor benefit; for worth, the rich adore.Who liv'd a solitaryPhœnixfreeFrom the commerce with mischiefe, joy'd to beStill gazing heaven-ward, where his thoughts did move,Fed with the sacred fire of zealous love.Alone he flourisht, 'till the fatall houreDid summon him, when gathering from each flowreTheir vertuous odours, from his perfum'd nest,He tooke his flight to everlasting rest.There shine great Lord, and with propitious eyes,Looke downe, and smile upon this sacrifice.

Bright Saint, thy pardon, if my sadder verse,

Appeare in sighing o're thy glorious hearse,

To envie heaven. For fame it selfe now weares

Griefes Livery, and onely speaks in teares.

And pardon youCastara, if a while

Your memory I banish from my stile;

When I have payd his death the tribute due,

Of sorrow, I'le returne to Love and you.

Is there a name likeTalbot, which a showre

Can force from every eye? And hath even powre

To alter natures course? How else should all

Runne wilde with mourning, and distracted fall:

Th' illiterate vulgar in a well tun'd breath,

Lament their losse, and learnedly chide death,

For its[28]bold rape, while the sad Poets song

Is yet unheard, as if griefe had no tongue.

Th'amaz'd marriner having lost his way

In the tempestuous desart of the Sea,

Lookes up but findes no starres. They all conspire

To darke themselves, t'enlighten this new fire.

The learn'd Astronomer with daring eye,

Searching to tracke the Spheres through which you flie,

(Most beauteous soule) doth in his journey faile,

And blushing, sayes, the subtlest art is fraile,

And but truths counterset. Your flight doth teach,

Faire Vertue hath an Orbe beyond his reach.

But I grow dull with sorrow. Unkinde Fate

To play the tyrant and subvert the state

Of setled goodnesse. Who shall henceforth stand

A pure example to enforme the Land

Of her loose riot[29]? Who shall counter-checke

The wanton pride of greatnesse; and direct

Straid honour in the true magnificke way?

Whose life shall shew what triumph 'tis t'obey

The hard commands of reason? And how sweet

The nuptials are, when wealth and learning meet?

Who will with silent piety confute

Atheisticke Sophistry, and by the fruite

Approve Religions tree? Who'le teach his blood

A Virgin law and dare be great and good?

Who will despise his stiles? And nobly weigh

In judgements ballance, that his honour'd clay

Hath no advantage by them? Who will live

So innocently pious, as to give

The world no scandall? Who'le himself deny,

And to warme passion a cold martyr dye?

My griefe distracts me. If my zeale hath said,

What checks the living: know I serve the dead.

The dead, who needs no monumentall vaults,

With his pale ashes to intombe his faults.

Whose sins beget no libels, whom the poore

For benefit; for worth, the rich adore.

Who liv'd a solitaryPhœnixfree

From the commerce with mischiefe, joy'd to be

Still gazing heaven-ward, where his thoughts did move,

Fed with the sacred fire of zealous love.

Alone he flourisht, 'till the fatall houre

Did summon him, when gathering from each flowre

Their vertuous odours, from his perfum'd nest,

He tooke his flight to everlasting rest.

There shine great Lord, and with propitious eyes,

Looke downe, and smile upon this sacrifice.

[28]his. 1634, 1635.[29]wit. 1634.

[28]his. 1634, 1635.

[29]wit. 1634.

To my worthy CousinMr. E. C.In praise of the City life, in the long Vacation.I Like the greene plush which your meadows weare;I praise your pregnant fields, which duly beareTheir wealthy burden to th'industrious Bore.Nor doe I disallow that who are pooreIn minde and fortune, thither should retire:But hate that he who's warme with[30]holy fireOf any knowledge, and 'mong-us may feastOn Nectar'd wit, should turne himselfe t' a beast,And graze ith' Country. Why did nature wrongSo much her paines, as to give you a tongueAnd fluent language; If converse you holdWith Oxen in the stall, and sheep ith' fold?But now it's long Vacation you will sayThe towne is empty, and who ever mayTo th' pleasure of his Country home repaire,Flyes from th' infection of ourLondonaire.In this your errour. Now's the time aloneTo live here; when the City Dame is gone,T' her house atBrandford; for beyond that sheImagines there's no land, butBarbary,Where lies her husbands Factor. When from henceRid is the Country Justice whose non-senceCorrupted had the language of the Inne,Where he and his horse litter'd: We beginneTo live in silence, when the noyse oth' BenchNot deafensWestminster, nor corrupt FrenchWalkesFleet-streetin her gowne. Ruffes of the Barre,By the Vacations powre translated are,To Cut-worke bands. And who were busie here,Are gone to sow sedition in the shire.The aire by this is purg'd, and the Termes strife,Thus fled the City: we the civill lifeLead happily. When in the gentle way,Of noble mirth, I have the long liv'd day,Contracted to a moment: I retire.To myCastara, and meet such a fireOf mutuall love: that if the City wereInfected, that would purifie the ayre.[30]th' holy fire. 1634.

I Like the greene plush which your meadows weare;I praise your pregnant fields, which duly beareTheir wealthy burden to th'industrious Bore.Nor doe I disallow that who are pooreIn minde and fortune, thither should retire:But hate that he who's warme with[30]holy fireOf any knowledge, and 'mong-us may feastOn Nectar'd wit, should turne himselfe t' a beast,And graze ith' Country. Why did nature wrongSo much her paines, as to give you a tongueAnd fluent language; If converse you holdWith Oxen in the stall, and sheep ith' fold?But now it's long Vacation you will sayThe towne is empty, and who ever mayTo th' pleasure of his Country home repaire,Flyes from th' infection of ourLondonaire.In this your errour. Now's the time aloneTo live here; when the City Dame is gone,T' her house atBrandford; for beyond that sheImagines there's no land, butBarbary,Where lies her husbands Factor. When from henceRid is the Country Justice whose non-senceCorrupted had the language of the Inne,Where he and his horse litter'd: We beginneTo live in silence, when the noyse oth' BenchNot deafensWestminster, nor corrupt FrenchWalkesFleet-streetin her gowne. Ruffes of the Barre,By the Vacations powre translated are,To Cut-worke bands. And who were busie here,Are gone to sow sedition in the shire.The aire by this is purg'd, and the Termes strife,Thus fled the City: we the civill lifeLead happily. When in the gentle way,Of noble mirth, I have the long liv'd day,Contracted to a moment: I retire.To myCastara, and meet such a fireOf mutuall love: that if the City wereInfected, that would purifie the ayre.

I Like the greene plush which your meadows weare;

I praise your pregnant fields, which duly beare

Their wealthy burden to th'industrious Bore.

Nor doe I disallow that who are poore

In minde and fortune, thither should retire:

But hate that he who's warme with[30]holy fire

Of any knowledge, and 'mong-us may feast

On Nectar'd wit, should turne himselfe t' a beast,

And graze ith' Country. Why did nature wrong

So much her paines, as to give you a tongue

And fluent language; If converse you hold

With Oxen in the stall, and sheep ith' fold?

But now it's long Vacation you will say

The towne is empty, and who ever may

To th' pleasure of his Country home repaire,

Flyes from th' infection of ourLondonaire.

In this your errour. Now's the time alone

To live here; when the City Dame is gone,

T' her house atBrandford; for beyond that she

Imagines there's no land, butBarbary,

Where lies her husbands Factor. When from hence

Rid is the Country Justice whose non-sence

Corrupted had the language of the Inne,

Where he and his horse litter'd: We beginne

To live in silence, when the noyse oth' Bench

Not deafensWestminster, nor corrupt French

WalkesFleet-streetin her gowne. Ruffes of the Barre,

By the Vacations powre translated are,

To Cut-worke bands. And who were busie here,

Are gone to sow sedition in the shire.

The aire by this is purg'd, and the Termes strife,

Thus fled the City: we the civill life

Lead happily. When in the gentle way,

Of noble mirth, I have the long liv'd day,

Contracted to a moment: I retire.

To myCastara, and meet such a fire

Of mutuall love: that if the City were

Infected, that would purifie the ayre.

[30]th' holy fire. 1634.

Loves AniversarieTo the Sunne.Thou art return'd (great Light) to that blest houreIn which I first by marriage, sacred power,Joyn'd withCastarahearts: And as the sameThy lustre is, as then, so is our flame:Which had increast, but that by loves decree,'Twas such at first, it ne're could greater be.But tell me (glorious Lampe) in thy survey,Of things below thee, what did not decayBy age to weaknesse? I since that have seeneThe Rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow greeneAnd wither, and the beauty of the fieldWith Winter wrinkled. Even thy selfe dost yeeldSomething to time, and to thy grave fall nigher.But vertuous love is one sweet endlesse fire.

Thou art return'd (great Light) to that blest houreIn which I first by marriage, sacred power,Joyn'd withCastarahearts: And as the sameThy lustre is, as then, so is our flame:Which had increast, but that by loves decree,'Twas such at first, it ne're could greater be.But tell me (glorious Lampe) in thy survey,Of things below thee, what did not decayBy age to weaknesse? I since that have seeneThe Rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow greeneAnd wither, and the beauty of the fieldWith Winter wrinkled. Even thy selfe dost yeeldSomething to time, and to thy grave fall nigher.But vertuous love is one sweet endlesse fire.

Thou art return'd (great Light) to that blest houre

In which I first by marriage, sacred power,

Joyn'd withCastarahearts: And as the same

Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame:

Which had increast, but that by loves decree,

'Twas such at first, it ne're could greater be.

But tell me (glorious Lampe) in thy survey,

Of things below thee, what did not decay

By age to weaknesse? I since that have seene

The Rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow greene

And wither, and the beauty of the field

With Winter wrinkled. Even thy selfe dost yeeld

Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher.

But vertuous love is one sweet endlesse fire.

Against them who lay unchastity to the sex of Women.They meet but with unwholesome Springs,And Summers which infectious are:They heare but when the Meremaid sings,And onely see the falling starre:Who ever dare,Affirme no woman chaste and faire.Goe cure your feavers: and you'le sayThe Dog-dayes scorch not all the yeare:In Copper Mines no longer stay,But travell to the West, and thereThe right ones see:And grant all gold's not Alchimie.What mad man 'cause the glow-wormes flameIs cold, sweares there's no warmth in fire?Cause some make forfeit of their name,And slave themselves to mans desire;Shall the sex freeFrom guilt, damn'd to the bondage be?Nor grieveCastara, though 'twere fraile,Thy Vertue then would brighter shine,When thy example should prevaile,And every womans faith be thine.And were there none:'Tis Majesty to rule alone.

They meet but with unwholesome Springs,And Summers which infectious are:They heare but when the Meremaid sings,And onely see the falling starre:Who ever dare,Affirme no woman chaste and faire.

They meet but with unwholesome Springs,

And Summers which infectious are:

They heare but when the Meremaid sings,

And onely see the falling starre:

Who ever dare,

Affirme no woman chaste and faire.

Goe cure your feavers: and you'le sayThe Dog-dayes scorch not all the yeare:In Copper Mines no longer stay,But travell to the West, and thereThe right ones see:And grant all gold's not Alchimie.

Goe cure your feavers: and you'le say

The Dog-dayes scorch not all the yeare:

In Copper Mines no longer stay,

But travell to the West, and there

The right ones see:

And grant all gold's not Alchimie.

What mad man 'cause the glow-wormes flameIs cold, sweares there's no warmth in fire?Cause some make forfeit of their name,And slave themselves to mans desire;Shall the sex freeFrom guilt, damn'd to the bondage be?

What mad man 'cause the glow-wormes flame

Is cold, sweares there's no warmth in fire?

Cause some make forfeit of their name,

And slave themselves to mans desire;

Shall the sex free

From guilt, damn'd to the bondage be?

Nor grieveCastara, though 'twere fraile,Thy Vertue then would brighter shine,When thy example should prevaile,And every womans faith be thine.And were there none:'Tis Majesty to rule alone.

Nor grieveCastara, though 'twere fraile,

Thy Vertue then would brighter shine,

When thy example should prevaile,

And every womans faith be thine.

And were there none:

'Tis Majesty to rule alone.

To the Right Honourable and excellently learned,WilliamEarle ofSt.My Lord,The Laurell doth your reverend temples wreathAs aptly now, as when your youth did breathThose tragicke raptures which your name shall saveFrom the blacke edict of a tyrant grave.Nor shall your Day ere set, till the Sunne shallFrom the blind heavens like a cynder fall;And all the elements intend their strife,To ruine what they fram'd: Then your fames life,When desp'rate Time lies gasping, shall expireAttended by the world ith' generall fire.Fame lengthens thus her selfe. And I to treadYour steps to glory, search among the dead,Where Vertue lies obscur'd; that as I giveLife to her tombe, I spight of time may live.Now I resolve in triumph of my verse,To bring greatTalbotfrom that forren hearse,Which yet doth to her fright his dust enclose:Then to singHerbertwho so glorious rose,With the fourthEdward, that his faith doth shineYet in the faith of noblestPembrookesline.Sometimes my swelling spirits I prepareTo speake the mightyPercy, neerest heire,In merits as in blood, toCharlesthe great:ThenDarbiesworth and greatnesse to repeat:OrMorleyeshonour, orMounteaglesfame,Whose valour lies eterniz'd in his name.But while I thinke to sing those of my bloud,And myCastara's; Loves unruly floodBreakes in, and beares away what ever stands,Built by my busie fancy on the sands.

My Lord,

The Laurell doth your reverend temples wreathAs aptly now, as when your youth did breathThose tragicke raptures which your name shall saveFrom the blacke edict of a tyrant grave.Nor shall your Day ere set, till the Sunne shallFrom the blind heavens like a cynder fall;And all the elements intend their strife,To ruine what they fram'd: Then your fames life,When desp'rate Time lies gasping, shall expireAttended by the world ith' generall fire.Fame lengthens thus her selfe. And I to treadYour steps to glory, search among the dead,Where Vertue lies obscur'd; that as I giveLife to her tombe, I spight of time may live.Now I resolve in triumph of my verse,To bring greatTalbotfrom that forren hearse,Which yet doth to her fright his dust enclose:Then to singHerbertwho so glorious rose,With the fourthEdward, that his faith doth shineYet in the faith of noblestPembrookesline.Sometimes my swelling spirits I prepareTo speake the mightyPercy, neerest heire,In merits as in blood, toCharlesthe great:ThenDarbiesworth and greatnesse to repeat:OrMorleyeshonour, orMounteaglesfame,Whose valour lies eterniz'd in his name.But while I thinke to sing those of my bloud,And myCastara's; Loves unruly floodBreakes in, and beares away what ever stands,Built by my busie fancy on the sands.

The Laurell doth your reverend temples wreath

As aptly now, as when your youth did breath

Those tragicke raptures which your name shall save

From the blacke edict of a tyrant grave.

Nor shall your Day ere set, till the Sunne shall

From the blind heavens like a cynder fall;

And all the elements intend their strife,

To ruine what they fram'd: Then your fames life,

When desp'rate Time lies gasping, shall expire

Attended by the world ith' generall fire.

Fame lengthens thus her selfe. And I to tread

Your steps to glory, search among the dead,

Where Vertue lies obscur'd; that as I give

Life to her tombe, I spight of time may live.

Now I resolve in triumph of my verse,

To bring greatTalbotfrom that forren hearse,

Which yet doth to her fright his dust enclose:

Then to singHerbertwho so glorious rose,

With the fourthEdward, that his faith doth shine

Yet in the faith of noblestPembrookesline.

Sometimes my swelling spirits I prepare

To speake the mightyPercy, neerest heire,

In merits as in blood, toCharlesthe great:

ThenDarbiesworth and greatnesse to repeat:

OrMorleyeshonour, orMounteaglesfame,

Whose valour lies eterniz'd in his name.

But while I thinke to sing those of my bloud,

And myCastara's; Loves unruly flood

Breakes in, and beares away what ever stands,

Built by my busie fancy on the sands.

ToCastara,Upon an embrace.'Bout th' Husband Oke, the VineThus wreathes to kisse his leavy face:Their streames thus Rivers joyne,And lose themselves in the embrace.But Trees want sence when they infold,And Waters when they meet, are cold.Thus Turtles bill, and groneTheir loves into each others eare:Two flames thus burne in one,When their curl'd heads to heaven they reare.But Birds want soule though not desire:And flames materiall soone expire.If not prophane; we'll sayWhen Angels close, their joyes are such.For we not love obeyThat's bastard to a fleshly touch.Let's closeCastarathen, since thusWe patterne Angels, and they us.

'Bout th' Husband Oke, the VineThus wreathes to kisse his leavy face:Their streames thus Rivers joyne,And lose themselves in the embrace.But Trees want sence when they infold,And Waters when they meet, are cold.

'Bout th' Husband Oke, the Vine

Thus wreathes to kisse his leavy face:

Their streames thus Rivers joyne,

And lose themselves in the embrace.

But Trees want sence when they infold,

And Waters when they meet, are cold.

Thus Turtles bill, and groneTheir loves into each others eare:Two flames thus burne in one,When their curl'd heads to heaven they reare.But Birds want soule though not desire:And flames materiall soone expire.

Thus Turtles bill, and grone

Their loves into each others eare:

Two flames thus burne in one,

When their curl'd heads to heaven they reare.

But Birds want soule though not desire:

And flames materiall soone expire.

If not prophane; we'll sayWhen Angels close, their joyes are such.For we not love obeyThat's bastard to a fleshly touch.Let's closeCastarathen, since thusWe patterne Angels, and they us.

If not prophane; we'll say

When Angels close, their joyes are such.

For we not love obey

That's bastard to a fleshly touch.

Let's closeCastarathen, since thus

We patterne Angels, and they us.

To the Honourable, G. T.Let not thy grones force Eccho from her cave,Or interrupt her weeping o're that wave,Which lastNarcissuskist: let no darke groveBe taught to whisper stories of thy love.What though the wind be turn'd? Canst thou not saileBy vertue of a cleane contrary gale,Into some other Port? Where thou wilt find,It was thy betterGeniuschang'd the wind,To steere thee to some Iland in the West,For wealth and pleasure, that transcends thy East.ThoughAstrodora, like a sullen starreEclipse her selfe: Ith' sky of beauty areTen thousand other fires, some bright as she.And who with milder beames, may shine on thee.Nor yet doth this Eclipse beare a portent,That should affright the world: The firmamentEnjoyes the light it did, a Sunne as cleare,And the young Spring doth like a Bride appeare,As fairely wed to theThessaliangroveAs e're it was; though she and you not love.And we two, who like two bright stars have shin'dIth' heaven of friendship, are as firmely joyn'dAs bloud and love first fram'd us. And to beLov'd, and thought worthy to be lov'd by thee,Is to be glorious. Since fame cannot lendAn honour, equals that ofTalbotsfriend.Nor envie me that myCastara'sflameYeelds me a constant warmth: Though first I cameTo marriage happy Ilands: Seas to theeWill yeeld as smooth a way, and winds as free.Which shall conduct thee (if hope may divine;)To this delicious port: and make love thine.

Let not thy grones force Eccho from her cave,Or interrupt her weeping o're that wave,Which lastNarcissuskist: let no darke groveBe taught to whisper stories of thy love.What though the wind be turn'd? Canst thou not saileBy vertue of a cleane contrary gale,Into some other Port? Where thou wilt find,It was thy betterGeniuschang'd the wind,To steere thee to some Iland in the West,For wealth and pleasure, that transcends thy East.ThoughAstrodora, like a sullen starreEclipse her selfe: Ith' sky of beauty areTen thousand other fires, some bright as she.And who with milder beames, may shine on thee.Nor yet doth this Eclipse beare a portent,That should affright the world: The firmamentEnjoyes the light it did, a Sunne as cleare,And the young Spring doth like a Bride appeare,As fairely wed to theThessaliangroveAs e're it was; though she and you not love.And we two, who like two bright stars have shin'dIth' heaven of friendship, are as firmely joyn'dAs bloud and love first fram'd us. And to beLov'd, and thought worthy to be lov'd by thee,Is to be glorious. Since fame cannot lendAn honour, equals that ofTalbotsfriend.Nor envie me that myCastara'sflameYeelds me a constant warmth: Though first I cameTo marriage happy Ilands: Seas to theeWill yeeld as smooth a way, and winds as free.Which shall conduct thee (if hope may divine;)To this delicious port: and make love thine.

Let not thy grones force Eccho from her cave,

Or interrupt her weeping o're that wave,

Which lastNarcissuskist: let no darke grove

Be taught to whisper stories of thy love.

What though the wind be turn'd? Canst thou not saile

By vertue of a cleane contrary gale,

Into some other Port? Where thou wilt find,

It was thy betterGeniuschang'd the wind,

To steere thee to some Iland in the West,

For wealth and pleasure, that transcends thy East.

ThoughAstrodora, like a sullen starre

Eclipse her selfe: Ith' sky of beauty are

Ten thousand other fires, some bright as she.

And who with milder beames, may shine on thee.

Nor yet doth this Eclipse beare a portent,

That should affright the world: The firmament

Enjoyes the light it did, a Sunne as cleare,

And the young Spring doth like a Bride appeare,

As fairely wed to theThessaliangrove

As e're it was; though she and you not love.

And we two, who like two bright stars have shin'd

Ith' heaven of friendship, are as firmely joyn'd

As bloud and love first fram'd us. And to be

Lov'd, and thought worthy to be lov'd by thee,

Is to be glorious. Since fame cannot lend

An honour, equals that ofTalbotsfriend.

Nor envie me that myCastara'sflame

Yeelds me a constant warmth: Though first I came

To marriage happy Ilands: Seas to thee

Will yeeld as smooth a way, and winds as free.

Which shall conduct thee (if hope may divine;)

To this delicious port: and make love thine.

ToCastara.The reward of Innocent Love.We saw and woo'd each others eyes,My soule contracted then with thine,And both burnt in one sacrifice.By which our Marriage grew divine.Let wilder youth, whose soule is sense,Prophane the Temple of delight.And purchase endlesse penitence,With thestolenpleasure of one night.Time's ever ours, while we dispiseThe sensuall idoll of our clay.For though the Sunne doe set and rise,We joy one everlasting day.Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,While each of us shine innocent.The troubled streame is still impure,With vertue flies away content.And though opinion often erre,Wee'le court the modest smile of fame.For sinnes blacke danger circles her,Who hath infection in her name.Thus when to one darke silent roome,Death shall our loving coffins thrust;Fame will build columnes on our tombe,And adde a perfume to our dust.

We saw and woo'd each others eyes,My soule contracted then with thine,And both burnt in one sacrifice.By which our Marriage grew divine.

We saw and woo'd each others eyes,

My soule contracted then with thine,

And both burnt in one sacrifice.

By which our Marriage grew divine.

Let wilder youth, whose soule is sense,Prophane the Temple of delight.And purchase endlesse penitence,With thestolenpleasure of one night.

Let wilder youth, whose soule is sense,

Prophane the Temple of delight.

And purchase endlesse penitence,

With thestolenpleasure of one night.

Time's ever ours, while we dispiseThe sensuall idoll of our clay.For though the Sunne doe set and rise,We joy one everlasting day.

Time's ever ours, while we dispise

The sensuall idoll of our clay.

For though the Sunne doe set and rise,

We joy one everlasting day.

Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,While each of us shine innocent.The troubled streame is still impure,With vertue flies away content.

Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,

While each of us shine innocent.

The troubled streame is still impure,

With vertue flies away content.

And though opinion often erre,Wee'le court the modest smile of fame.For sinnes blacke danger circles her,Who hath infection in her name.

And though opinion often erre,

Wee'le court the modest smile of fame.

For sinnes blacke danger circles her,

Who hath infection in her name.

Thus when to one darke silent roome,Death shall our loving coffins thrust;Fame will build columnes on our tombe,And adde a perfume to our dust.

Thus when to one darke silent roome,

Death shall our loving coffins thrust;

Fame will build columnes on our tombe,

And adde a perfume to our dust.

To my noble Friend, SirI. P.Knight.Sir,Though my deareTalbotsFate exact, a sadAnd heavy brow; my verse shall not be cladFor him this houre in mourning: I will writeTo you the glory of a pompous night,Which none (except sobriety) who witOr cloathes could boast, but freely did admit.I (who still sinne for company) was thereAnd tasted of the glorious supper, whereMeate was the least of wonder. Though the nestOth'Phœnixrifled seem'd t'amaze the feast,And th' Ocean left so poore that it aloneCould since vant wretched herring and poore John.Lucullussurfets, were but types of this,And whatsoever riot mention'd isIn story, did but the dullZanyeplay,To this proud night; which rather wee'le terme day:For th'artificiall lights so thicke were set,That bright Sun seem'd this to counterfeitBut seven (whom whether we should Sages callOr deadly sinnes, Ile not dispute) were allInvited to this pompe. And yet I darePawne my lov'd Muse, th'Hungariandid prepareNot halfe that quantity of victuall, whenHe layd his happy siege toNortlinghen.The mist of the perfumes was breath'd so thickeThatLinxhimselfe thought his sight fam'd so quicke,Had there scarce spyed one sober: For the wealthOf theCanarieswas exhaust, the healthOf his good Majestye to celebrate,Who'le judge them loyall subjects without that:Yet they, who some fond privilege to mainteine,Would have rebeld; their best freehold, their braineSurrender'd there; and five fifteenes did payTo drink his happy life and reigne. O dayIt was thy piety to flye; th' hadst beeneFound accessary else to this fond sinne.But I forget to speake each stratagemBy which the dishes enter'd, and in themEach luscious miracle, As if more bookesHad written beene oth' mystery of CookesThen the Philos'phers stone, here we did seeAll wonders in the kitchin Alchimy:But Ile not have you there, before you partYou shall have something of another art.A banquet raining downe so fast, the goodOld Patriarch would have thought a generall flood:Heaven open'd and from thence a mighty showreOf Amber comfits it sweete selfe did powreUpon our heads, and Suckets from our eyeLike thickend clouds did steale away the sky,That it was question'd whether heaven wereBlack-fryers, and each starre a confectioner;But I too long detaine you at a feastYou hap'ly surfet of; now every guestIs reeld downe to his coach; I licence craveSir, but to kisse your hands, and take my leave.

Sir,

Though my deareTalbotsFate exact, a sadAnd heavy brow; my verse shall not be cladFor him this houre in mourning: I will writeTo you the glory of a pompous night,Which none (except sobriety) who witOr cloathes could boast, but freely did admit.I (who still sinne for company) was thereAnd tasted of the glorious supper, whereMeate was the least of wonder. Though the nestOth'Phœnixrifled seem'd t'amaze the feast,And th' Ocean left so poore that it aloneCould since vant wretched herring and poore John.Lucullussurfets, were but types of this,And whatsoever riot mention'd isIn story, did but the dullZanyeplay,To this proud night; which rather wee'le terme day:For th'artificiall lights so thicke were set,That bright Sun seem'd this to counterfeitBut seven (whom whether we should Sages callOr deadly sinnes, Ile not dispute) were allInvited to this pompe. And yet I darePawne my lov'd Muse, th'Hungariandid prepareNot halfe that quantity of victuall, whenHe layd his happy siege toNortlinghen.The mist of the perfumes was breath'd so thickeThatLinxhimselfe thought his sight fam'd so quicke,Had there scarce spyed one sober: For the wealthOf theCanarieswas exhaust, the healthOf his good Majestye to celebrate,Who'le judge them loyall subjects without that:Yet they, who some fond privilege to mainteine,Would have rebeld; their best freehold, their braineSurrender'd there; and five fifteenes did payTo drink his happy life and reigne. O dayIt was thy piety to flye; th' hadst beeneFound accessary else to this fond sinne.But I forget to speake each stratagemBy which the dishes enter'd, and in themEach luscious miracle, As if more bookesHad written beene oth' mystery of CookesThen the Philos'phers stone, here we did seeAll wonders in the kitchin Alchimy:But Ile not have you there, before you partYou shall have something of another art.A banquet raining downe so fast, the goodOld Patriarch would have thought a generall flood:Heaven open'd and from thence a mighty showreOf Amber comfits it sweete selfe did powreUpon our heads, and Suckets from our eyeLike thickend clouds did steale away the sky,That it was question'd whether heaven wereBlack-fryers, and each starre a confectioner;But I too long detaine you at a feastYou hap'ly surfet of; now every guestIs reeld downe to his coach; I licence craveSir, but to kisse your hands, and take my leave.

Though my deareTalbotsFate exact, a sad

And heavy brow; my verse shall not be clad

For him this houre in mourning: I will write

To you the glory of a pompous night,

Which none (except sobriety) who wit

Or cloathes could boast, but freely did admit.

I (who still sinne for company) was there

And tasted of the glorious supper, where

Meate was the least of wonder. Though the nest

Oth'Phœnixrifled seem'd t'amaze the feast,

And th' Ocean left so poore that it alone

Could since vant wretched herring and poore John.

Lucullussurfets, were but types of this,

And whatsoever riot mention'd is

In story, did but the dullZanyeplay,

To this proud night; which rather wee'le terme day:

For th'artificiall lights so thicke were set,

That bright Sun seem'd this to counterfeit

But seven (whom whether we should Sages call

Or deadly sinnes, Ile not dispute) were all

Invited to this pompe. And yet I dare

Pawne my lov'd Muse, th'Hungariandid prepare

Not halfe that quantity of victuall, when

He layd his happy siege toNortlinghen.

The mist of the perfumes was breath'd so thicke

ThatLinxhimselfe thought his sight fam'd so quicke,

Had there scarce spyed one sober: For the wealth

Of theCanarieswas exhaust, the health

Of his good Majestye to celebrate,

Who'le judge them loyall subjects without that:

Yet they, who some fond privilege to mainteine,

Would have rebeld; their best freehold, their braine

Surrender'd there; and five fifteenes did pay

To drink his happy life and reigne. O day

It was thy piety to flye; th' hadst beene

Found accessary else to this fond sinne.

But I forget to speake each stratagem

By which the dishes enter'd, and in them

Each luscious miracle, As if more bookes

Had written beene oth' mystery of Cookes

Then the Philos'phers stone, here we did see

All wonders in the kitchin Alchimy:

But Ile not have you there, before you part

You shall have something of another art.

A banquet raining downe so fast, the good

Old Patriarch would have thought a generall flood:

Heaven open'd and from thence a mighty showre

Of Amber comfits it sweete selfe did powre

Upon our heads, and Suckets from our eye

Like thickend clouds did steale away the sky,

That it was question'd whether heaven were

Black-fryers, and each starre a confectioner;

But I too long detaine you at a feast

You hap'ly surfet of; now every guest

Is reeld downe to his coach; I licence crave

Sir, but to kisse your hands, and take my leave.

To The Right HonourableArchibaldEarle ofAr.If your example be obey'dThe serious few will live ith' silent shade:And not indanger by the windOr Sunshine, the complexion of their mind:Whose beauty weares so cleare a skinThat it decayes with the least taint of sin.Vice growes by custome, nor dare weReject it as a slave, where it breathes free,And is no priviledge denyed;Nor if advanc'd to higher place envyed.Wherefore your Lordship in your selfe(Not lancht farre in the maine, nor nigh the shelfeOf humbler fortune) lives at ease,Safe from the rocks oth' shore, and stormes oth' Seas.Your soule's a well built City, whereThere's such munition, that no war breeds feare:No rebels wilde destractions move;For you the heads have crusht; Rage, Envy, Love.And therefore you defiance bidTo open enmity, or mischiefe hidIn fawning hate and supple pride,Who are on every corner fortifide.Your youth not rudely led by rageOf blood, is now the story of your ageWhich without boast you may averre'Fore blackest danger, glory did prefer:Glory not purchast by the breathOf Sycophants, but by encountring death.Yet wildnesse nor the feare of lawesDid make your fight, but justice of the cause.For but mad prodigals they areOf fortitude, who for it selfe love warre.When well made peace hath clos'd the eyesOf discord, loath did not your youth surprize.Your life as well as powre, did aweThe bad, and to the good was the best law:When most men vertue did pursueIn hope by it to grow in fame like you.Nor when you did to court repaire,Did you your manners alter with the ayre.You did your modesty retaineYour faithfull dealing, the same tongue and braine.Nor did all the soft flattery thereInchant you so, but still you truth could heare.And though your roofes were richly guilt,The basis was on no wards ruine built.Nor were your vassals made a prey,And forc't to curse the Coronation day.And though no bravery was knowneTo out-shine yours, you onely spent your owne.For 'twas the indulgence of fate,To give y' a moderate minde, and bounteous state?But I, my Lord, who have no friendOf fortune, must begin where you doe end.'Tis dang'rous to approach the fireOf action; nor is't safe, farre to retire.Yet better lost ith' multitudeOf private men, then on the state t'intrude,And hazard for a doubtfull smile,My stocke of same, and inward peace to spoile.Ile therefore nigh some murm'ring brookeThat wantons through my meddowes, with a bookeWith myCastara, or some friend,My youth not guilty of ambition spend.To my own shade (if fate permit)Ile whisper some soft musique of my wit.And flatter to my selfe, Ile seeBy that, strange motion steale into the tree.But still my first and chiefest careShall be t'appease offended heaven with prayer:And in such mold my thoughts to cast,That each day shall be spent as 'twere my lastHow ere it's sweete lust to obey,Vertue though rugged, is the safest way.

If your example be obey'dThe serious few will live ith' silent shade:And not indanger by the windOr Sunshine, the complexion of their mind:Whose beauty weares so cleare a skinThat it decayes with the least taint of sin.Vice growes by custome, nor dare weReject it as a slave, where it breathes free,And is no priviledge denyed;Nor if advanc'd to higher place envyed.Wherefore your Lordship in your selfe(Not lancht farre in the maine, nor nigh the shelfeOf humbler fortune) lives at ease,Safe from the rocks oth' shore, and stormes oth' Seas.Your soule's a well built City, whereThere's such munition, that no war breeds feare:No rebels wilde destractions move;For you the heads have crusht; Rage, Envy, Love.And therefore you defiance bidTo open enmity, or mischiefe hidIn fawning hate and supple pride,Who are on every corner fortifide.Your youth not rudely led by rageOf blood, is now the story of your ageWhich without boast you may averre'Fore blackest danger, glory did prefer:Glory not purchast by the breathOf Sycophants, but by encountring death.Yet wildnesse nor the feare of lawesDid make your fight, but justice of the cause.For but mad prodigals they areOf fortitude, who for it selfe love warre.When well made peace hath clos'd the eyesOf discord, loath did not your youth surprize.Your life as well as powre, did aweThe bad, and to the good was the best law:When most men vertue did pursueIn hope by it to grow in fame like you.Nor when you did to court repaire,Did you your manners alter with the ayre.You did your modesty retaineYour faithfull dealing, the same tongue and braine.Nor did all the soft flattery thereInchant you so, but still you truth could heare.And though your roofes were richly guilt,The basis was on no wards ruine built.Nor were your vassals made a prey,And forc't to curse the Coronation day.And though no bravery was knowneTo out-shine yours, you onely spent your owne.For 'twas the indulgence of fate,To give y' a moderate minde, and bounteous state?But I, my Lord, who have no friendOf fortune, must begin where you doe end.'Tis dang'rous to approach the fireOf action; nor is't safe, farre to retire.Yet better lost ith' multitudeOf private men, then on the state t'intrude,And hazard for a doubtfull smile,My stocke of same, and inward peace to spoile.Ile therefore nigh some murm'ring brookeThat wantons through my meddowes, with a bookeWith myCastara, or some friend,My youth not guilty of ambition spend.To my own shade (if fate permit)Ile whisper some soft musique of my wit.And flatter to my selfe, Ile seeBy that, strange motion steale into the tree.But still my first and chiefest careShall be t'appease offended heaven with prayer:And in such mold my thoughts to cast,That each day shall be spent as 'twere my lastHow ere it's sweete lust to obey,Vertue though rugged, is the safest way.

If your example be obey'd

The serious few will live ith' silent shade:

And not indanger by the wind

Or Sunshine, the complexion of their mind:

Whose beauty weares so cleare a skin

That it decayes with the least taint of sin.

Vice growes by custome, nor dare we

Reject it as a slave, where it breathes free,

And is no priviledge denyed;

Nor if advanc'd to higher place envyed.

Wherefore your Lordship in your selfe

(Not lancht farre in the maine, nor nigh the shelfe

Of humbler fortune) lives at ease,

Safe from the rocks oth' shore, and stormes oth' Seas.

Your soule's a well built City, where

There's such munition, that no war breeds feare:

No rebels wilde destractions move;

For you the heads have crusht; Rage, Envy, Love.

And therefore you defiance bid

To open enmity, or mischiefe hid

In fawning hate and supple pride,

Who are on every corner fortifide.

Your youth not rudely led by rage

Of blood, is now the story of your age

Which without boast you may averre

'Fore blackest danger, glory did prefer:

Glory not purchast by the breath

Of Sycophants, but by encountring death.

Yet wildnesse nor the feare of lawes

Did make your fight, but justice of the cause.

For but mad prodigals they are

Of fortitude, who for it selfe love warre.

When well made peace hath clos'd the eyes

Of discord, loath did not your youth surprize.

Your life as well as powre, did awe

The bad, and to the good was the best law:

When most men vertue did pursue

In hope by it to grow in fame like you.

Nor when you did to court repaire,

Did you your manners alter with the ayre.

You did your modesty retaine

Your faithfull dealing, the same tongue and braine.

Nor did all the soft flattery there

Inchant you so, but still you truth could heare.

And though your roofes were richly guilt,

The basis was on no wards ruine built.

Nor were your vassals made a prey,

And forc't to curse the Coronation day.

And though no bravery was knowne

To out-shine yours, you onely spent your owne.

For 'twas the indulgence of fate,

To give y' a moderate minde, and bounteous state?

But I, my Lord, who have no friend

Of fortune, must begin where you doe end.

'Tis dang'rous to approach the fire

Of action; nor is't safe, farre to retire.

Yet better lost ith' multitude

Of private men, then on the state t'intrude,

And hazard for a doubtfull smile,

My stocke of same, and inward peace to spoile.

Ile therefore nigh some murm'ring brooke

That wantons through my meddowes, with a booke

With myCastara, or some friend,

My youth not guilty of ambition spend.

To my own shade (if fate permit)

Ile whisper some soft musique of my wit.

And flatter to my selfe, Ile see

By that, strange motion steale into the tree.

But still my first and chiefest care

Shall be t'appease offended heaven with prayer:

And in such mold my thoughts to cast,

That each day shall be spent as 'twere my last

How ere it's sweete lust to obey,

Vertue though rugged, is the safest way.

An Elegy upon The HonourableHenry Cambell,sonne to the Earle ofArg.Its false Arithmaticke to say thy breathExpir'd to soone, or irreligious deathProphan'd thy holy youth. For if thy yearesBe number'd by thy vertues or our teares,Thou didst the oldMethusalemout-live.Though Time, but twenty yeares account can giveOf thy abode on earth, yet every houreOf thy brave youth by vertues wondrous powreWas lengthen'd to a yeare. Each well-spent dayKeepes young the body, but the soule makes gray.Such miracles workes goodnesse: and behindTh'ast left to us such stories of thy mindeFit for example; that when them we read,We envy earth the treasure of the dead.Why doe the sinfull riot and surviveThe feavers of their surfets? Why aliveIs yet disorder'd greatnesse, and all theyWho the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey?Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the nightWith cheats and imprecations? Why is lightLooked on by those whose breath may poyson it:Who sold the vigor of their strength and witTo buy diseases: and thou, who faire truthAnd vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth?But Ile not question fate. Heaven doth conveighThose first from the darke prison of their clayWho are most fit for heaven. Thou in warreHadst tane degrees, those dangers felt, which areThe props on which peace safely doth subsistAnd through the Cannons blew and horrid mistHadst brought her light: And now wert so compleatThat naught but death did want to make thee great.Thy death was timely then bright soule to thee,And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not. 'Twas weWho dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increaseOf reall glory both in warre and peace,We all did share: and thou away we feareDidst with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare.Each then be his owne mourner, Wee'le to theeWrite hymnes, upon the world an Elegie.

Its false Arithmaticke to say thy breathExpir'd to soone, or irreligious deathProphan'd thy holy youth. For if thy yearesBe number'd by thy vertues or our teares,Thou didst the oldMethusalemout-live.Though Time, but twenty yeares account can giveOf thy abode on earth, yet every houreOf thy brave youth by vertues wondrous powreWas lengthen'd to a yeare. Each well-spent dayKeepes young the body, but the soule makes gray.Such miracles workes goodnesse: and behindTh'ast left to us such stories of thy mindeFit for example; that when them we read,We envy earth the treasure of the dead.Why doe the sinfull riot and surviveThe feavers of their surfets? Why aliveIs yet disorder'd greatnesse, and all theyWho the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey?Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the nightWith cheats and imprecations? Why is lightLooked on by those whose breath may poyson it:Who sold the vigor of their strength and witTo buy diseases: and thou, who faire truthAnd vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth?But Ile not question fate. Heaven doth conveighThose first from the darke prison of their clayWho are most fit for heaven. Thou in warreHadst tane degrees, those dangers felt, which areThe props on which peace safely doth subsistAnd through the Cannons blew and horrid mistHadst brought her light: And now wert so compleatThat naught but death did want to make thee great.Thy death was timely then bright soule to thee,And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not. 'Twas weWho dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increaseOf reall glory both in warre and peace,We all did share: and thou away we feareDidst with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare.Each then be his owne mourner, Wee'le to theeWrite hymnes, upon the world an Elegie.

Its false Arithmaticke to say thy breath

Expir'd to soone, or irreligious death

Prophan'd thy holy youth. For if thy yeares

Be number'd by thy vertues or our teares,

Thou didst the oldMethusalemout-live.

Though Time, but twenty yeares account can give

Of thy abode on earth, yet every houre

Of thy brave youth by vertues wondrous powre

Was lengthen'd to a yeare. Each well-spent day

Keepes young the body, but the soule makes gray.

Such miracles workes goodnesse: and behind

Th'ast left to us such stories of thy minde

Fit for example; that when them we read,

We envy earth the treasure of the dead.

Why doe the sinfull riot and survive

The feavers of their surfets? Why alive

Is yet disorder'd greatnesse, and all they

Who the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey?

Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the night

With cheats and imprecations? Why is light

Looked on by those whose breath may poyson it:

Who sold the vigor of their strength and wit

To buy diseases: and thou, who faire truth

And vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth?

But Ile not question fate. Heaven doth conveigh

Those first from the darke prison of their clay

Who are most fit for heaven. Thou in warre

Hadst tane degrees, those dangers felt, which are

The props on which peace safely doth subsist

And through the Cannons blew and horrid mist

Hadst brought her light: And now wert so compleat

That naught but death did want to make thee great.

Thy death was timely then bright soule to thee,

And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not. 'Twas we

Who dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increase

Of reall glory both in warre and peace,

We all did share: and thou away we feare

Didst with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare.

Each then be his owne mourner, Wee'le to thee

Write hymnes, upon the world an Elegie.

ToCastara.Why should we feare to melt away in death;May we but dye together. When beneathIn a coole vault we sleepe, the world will proveReligious, and call it the shrine of Love.There, when oth' wedding eve some beautious maid,Suspitious of the faith of man, hath paidThe tribute of her vowes; oth' sudden sheeTwo violets sprouting from the tombe will see:And cry out, ye sweet emblems of their zealeWho live below, sprang ye up to revealeThe story of our future joyes, how weThe faithfull patterns of their love shall be?If not; hang downe your heads opprest with dew,And I will weepe and wither hence with you.

Why should we feare to melt away in death;May we but dye together. When beneathIn a coole vault we sleepe, the world will proveReligious, and call it the shrine of Love.There, when oth' wedding eve some beautious maid,Suspitious of the faith of man, hath paidThe tribute of her vowes; oth' sudden sheeTwo violets sprouting from the tombe will see:And cry out, ye sweet emblems of their zealeWho live below, sprang ye up to revealeThe story of our future joyes, how weThe faithfull patterns of their love shall be?If not; hang downe your heads opprest with dew,And I will weepe and wither hence with you.

Why should we feare to melt away in death;

May we but dye together. When beneath

In a coole vault we sleepe, the world will prove

Religious, and call it the shrine of Love.

There, when oth' wedding eve some beautious maid,

Suspitious of the faith of man, hath paid

The tribute of her vowes; oth' sudden shee

Two violets sprouting from the tombe will see:

And cry out, ye sweet emblems of their zeale

Who live below, sprang ye up to reveale

The story of our future joyes, how we

The faithfull patterns of their love shall be?

If not; hang downe your heads opprest with dew,

And I will weepe and wither hence with you.

ToCastara,Of what we were before our creation.WhenPelionwondring saw, that raine which fellBut now from angry Heaven, to Heaven ward swell:When th' Indian Ocean did the wanton play,Mingling its billowes with the Balticke sea:And the whole earth was water: O where thenWere weCastara? In the fate of menLost underneath the waves? Or to beguileHeaven's justice, lurkt we inNoahsfloating Isle?We had no being then. This fleshly frameWed to a soule, long after, hither cameA stranger to it selfe. Those moneths that wereBut the last age, no news of us did heare.What pompe is then in us? Who th' other dayWere nothing; and in triumph now, but clay.

WhenPelionwondring saw, that raine which fellBut now from angry Heaven, to Heaven ward swell:When th' Indian Ocean did the wanton play,Mingling its billowes with the Balticke sea:And the whole earth was water: O where thenWere weCastara? In the fate of menLost underneath the waves? Or to beguileHeaven's justice, lurkt we inNoahsfloating Isle?We had no being then. This fleshly frameWed to a soule, long after, hither cameA stranger to it selfe. Those moneths that wereBut the last age, no news of us did heare.What pompe is then in us? Who th' other dayWere nothing; and in triumph now, but clay.

WhenPelionwondring saw, that raine which fell

But now from angry Heaven, to Heaven ward swell:

When th' Indian Ocean did the wanton play,

Mingling its billowes with the Balticke sea:

And the whole earth was water: O where then

Were weCastara? In the fate of men

Lost underneath the waves? Or to beguile

Heaven's justice, lurkt we inNoahsfloating Isle?

We had no being then. This fleshly frame

Wed to a soule, long after, hither came

A stranger to it selfe. Those moneths that were

But the last age, no news of us did heare.

What pompe is then in us? Who th' other day

Were nothing; and in triumph now, but clay.

To the Moment last past.O Whither dost thou flye? Cannot my vowIntreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but now,And thou art gone: like ships which plough the Sea,And leave no print for man to tracke their way.O unseene wealth! who thee did husband, canOut-vie the jewels of the Ocean,The mines of th' earth! One sigh well spent in theeHad beene a purchase for eternity!We will not loose thee then.Castara, whereShall we finde out his hidden sepulcher;And wee'le revive him. Not the cruell stealthOf fate shall rob us, of so great a wealth.Undone in thrift! while we besought his stay,Ten of his fellow moments fled away.

O Whither dost thou flye? Cannot my vowIntreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but now,And thou art gone: like ships which plough the Sea,And leave no print for man to tracke their way.O unseene wealth! who thee did husband, canOut-vie the jewels of the Ocean,The mines of th' earth! One sigh well spent in theeHad beene a purchase for eternity!We will not loose thee then.Castara, whereShall we finde out his hidden sepulcher;And wee'le revive him. Not the cruell stealthOf fate shall rob us, of so great a wealth.Undone in thrift! while we besought his stay,Ten of his fellow moments fled away.

O Whither dost thou flye? Cannot my vow

Intreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but now,

And thou art gone: like ships which plough the Sea,

And leave no print for man to tracke their way.

O unseene wealth! who thee did husband, can

Out-vie the jewels of the Ocean,

The mines of th' earth! One sigh well spent in thee

Had beene a purchase for eternity!

We will not loose thee then.Castara, where

Shall we finde out his hidden sepulcher;

And wee'le revive him. Not the cruell stealth

Of fate shall rob us, of so great a wealth.

Undone in thrift! while we besought his stay,

Ten of his fellow moments fled away.

ToCastara.Of the knowledge of Love.Where sleepes the North-wind when the South inspiresLife in the spring, and gathers into quiresThe scatter'd Nightingales; whose subtle earesHeard first th' harmonious language of the Spheares;Whence hath the stone Magneticke force t'allureTh' enamour'd iron; From a seed impureOr naturall did first the Mandrake grow;What powre ith' Ocean makes it ebbe and flow;What strange materials is the azure skyeCompacted of; of what its[31]brightest eyeThe ever flaming Sunne; what people areIn th'unknowne world; what worlds in every star;Let curious fancies at this secret rove;Castarawhat we know, wee'le practise, Love.[31]her. 1635.

Where sleepes the North-wind when the South inspiresLife in the spring, and gathers into quiresThe scatter'd Nightingales; whose subtle earesHeard first th' harmonious language of the Spheares;Whence hath the stone Magneticke force t'allureTh' enamour'd iron; From a seed impureOr naturall did first the Mandrake grow;What powre ith' Ocean makes it ebbe and flow;What strange materials is the azure skyeCompacted of; of what its[31]brightest eyeThe ever flaming Sunne; what people areIn th'unknowne world; what worlds in every star;Let curious fancies at this secret rove;Castarawhat we know, wee'le practise, Love.

Where sleepes the North-wind when the South inspires

Life in the spring, and gathers into quires

The scatter'd Nightingales; whose subtle eares

Heard first th' harmonious language of the Spheares;

Whence hath the stone Magneticke force t'allure

Th' enamour'd iron; From a seed impure

Or naturall did first the Mandrake grow;

What powre ith' Ocean makes it ebbe and flow;

What strange materials is the azure skye

Compacted of; of what its[31]brightest eye

The ever flaming Sunne; what people are

In th'unknowne world; what worlds in every star;

Let curious fancies at this secret rove;

Castarawhat we know, wee'le practise, Love.

[31]her. 1635.

[32]To the Right Honourable the Countesse ofC.Madam,Should the coldMuscovit, whose furre and stoveCan scarse prepare him heate enough for love,But view the wonder of your presence, heWould scorne his winters sharpest injury:And trace the naked groves, till he found bayseTo write the beautious triumphs of your prayse.As a dull Poet even he would say,Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them dayTill that bright minute; that he now admiresNo more why the coy Spring so soone retiresFrom their unhappy clyme: It doth pursueThe Sun, and he derives his light from you.Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick SeaIs set at freedome, while the yce awayDoth melt at your approach; how by so faireHarmonious beauty, their rude manners areReduc't to order; how to them you bringThe wealthiest mines below, above the Spring.Thus would his wonder speake. For he would wantReligion to beleeve, there were a SaintWithin, and all he saw was but the shrine.But I here pay my vowes to the devinePure essence there inclos'd, which if it wereNot hid in a faire cloud but might appeareIn its full lustre, would make Nature liveIn a state equall to her primitive.But sweetly thats obscur'd. Yet though our eyeCannot the splendor of your soule descryIn true perfection, by a glimmering light,Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how brightThe Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkindEclipse, or else our selves for being blinde.How hastily doth Nature build up manTo leave him so imperfect? For he canSee nought beyond his sence; she doth controuleSo farre his sight, he nere discern'd a soule.For had yours beene the object of his eye;It had turn'd wonder to Idolatry.[32]To the Right Honourable, my very good Lady, the Countesse ofC. 1635.

Madam,

Should the coldMuscovit, whose furre and stoveCan scarse prepare him heate enough for love,But view the wonder of your presence, heWould scorne his winters sharpest injury:And trace the naked groves, till he found bayseTo write the beautious triumphs of your prayse.As a dull Poet even he would say,Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them dayTill that bright minute; that he now admiresNo more why the coy Spring so soone retiresFrom their unhappy clyme: It doth pursueThe Sun, and he derives his light from you.Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick SeaIs set at freedome, while the yce awayDoth melt at your approach; how by so faireHarmonious beauty, their rude manners areReduc't to order; how to them you bringThe wealthiest mines below, above the Spring.Thus would his wonder speake. For he would wantReligion to beleeve, there were a SaintWithin, and all he saw was but the shrine.But I here pay my vowes to the devinePure essence there inclos'd, which if it wereNot hid in a faire cloud but might appeareIn its full lustre, would make Nature liveIn a state equall to her primitive.But sweetly thats obscur'd. Yet though our eyeCannot the splendor of your soule descryIn true perfection, by a glimmering light,Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how brightThe Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkindEclipse, or else our selves for being blinde.How hastily doth Nature build up manTo leave him so imperfect? For he canSee nought beyond his sence; she doth controuleSo farre his sight, he nere discern'd a soule.For had yours beene the object of his eye;It had turn'd wonder to Idolatry.

Should the coldMuscovit, whose furre and stove

Can scarse prepare him heate enough for love,

But view the wonder of your presence, he

Would scorne his winters sharpest injury:

And trace the naked groves, till he found bayse

To write the beautious triumphs of your prayse.

As a dull Poet even he would say,

Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them day

Till that bright minute; that he now admires

No more why the coy Spring so soone retires

From their unhappy clyme: It doth pursue

The Sun, and he derives his light from you.

Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick Sea

Is set at freedome, while the yce away

Doth melt at your approach; how by so faire

Harmonious beauty, their rude manners are

Reduc't to order; how to them you bring

The wealthiest mines below, above the Spring.

Thus would his wonder speake. For he would want

Religion to beleeve, there were a Saint

Within, and all he saw was but the shrine.

But I here pay my vowes to the devine

Pure essence there inclos'd, which if it were

Not hid in a faire cloud but might appeare

In its full lustre, would make Nature live

In a state equall to her primitive.

But sweetly thats obscur'd. Yet though our eye

Cannot the splendor of your soule descry

In true perfection, by a glimmering light,

Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how bright

The Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkind

Eclipse, or else our selves for being blinde.

How hastily doth Nature build up man

To leave him so imperfect? For he can

See nought beyond his sence; she doth controule

So farre his sight, he nere discern'd a soule.

For had yours beene the object of his eye;

It had turn'd wonder to Idolatry.

[32]To the Right Honourable, my very good Lady, the Countesse ofC. 1635.

The harmony of Love.Amphion, O thou holy shade!BringOrpheusup with thee:That wonder may you both invade,Hearing Loves harmony.You who are soule, not rudely madeUp, with Materiall eares,And fit to reach the musique of these spheares.Harke! whenCastara'sorbs doe moveBy my first moving eyes,How great the Symphony of Love,But 'tis the destiniesWill not so farre my prayer approve,To bring you hither, hereLest you meete heaven, for Elizium there.Tis no dull Sublunary flameBurnes in her heart and mine.But something more, then hath a name.So subtle and divine,We know not why, nor how it came.Which shall shine bright, till sheAnd the whole world of love, expire with me.

Amphion, O thou holy shade!BringOrpheusup with thee:That wonder may you both invade,Hearing Loves harmony.You who are soule, not rudely madeUp, with Materiall eares,And fit to reach the musique of these spheares.

Amphion, O thou holy shade!

BringOrpheusup with thee:

That wonder may you both invade,

Hearing Loves harmony.

You who are soule, not rudely made

Up, with Materiall eares,

And fit to reach the musique of these spheares.

Harke! whenCastara'sorbs doe moveBy my first moving eyes,How great the Symphony of Love,But 'tis the destiniesWill not so farre my prayer approve,To bring you hither, hereLest you meete heaven, for Elizium there.

Harke! whenCastara'sorbs doe move

By my first moving eyes,

How great the Symphony of Love,

But 'tis the destinies

Will not so farre my prayer approve,

To bring you hither, here

Lest you meete heaven, for Elizium there.

Tis no dull Sublunary flameBurnes in her heart and mine.But something more, then hath a name.So subtle and divine,We know not why, nor how it came.Which shall shine bright, till sheAnd the whole world of love, expire with me.

Tis no dull Sublunary flame

Burnes in her heart and mine.

But something more, then hath a name.

So subtle and divine,

We know not why, nor how it came.

Which shall shine bright, till she

And the whole world of love, expire with me.

To my honoured friend SirEd. P.Knight.You'd leave the silence in which safe we are,To listen to the noyse of warre;And walke those rugged paths, the factious tread,Who by the number of the deadReckon their glories, and thinke greatnesse stoodUnsafe, till it was built on blood.Secure ith' wall our Seas and ships provide(Abhorring wars so barb'rous prideAnd honour bought with slaughter) in contentLets breath though humble, innocent.Folly and madnesse! Since 'tis ods we nereSee the fresh youth of the next yeare.Perhaps not the chast morne, her selfe discloseAgaine, t'out-blush th' æmulous rose,Why doth ambition so the mind distresseTo make us scorne what we possesse?And looke so farre before us? Since all weCan hope, is varied misery?Goe find some whispering shade neareArneorPoe,And gently 'mong their violets throwYour wearyed limbs, and see if all those faireEnchantments can charme griefe or care?Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when youThe ruin'd Capitoll shall viewAnd statues, a disorder'd heape; you canNot cure yet the disease of man,And banish your owne thoughts. Goe travaile whereAnother Sun and Starres appeare,And land not toucht by any covetous fleet,And yet even there your selfe you'le meet.Stay here then, and while curious exiles findNew toyes for a fantastique mind;Enjoy at home what's reall: here the SpringBy her aeriall quires doth singAs sweetly to you, as if you were laidUnder the learn'dThessalianshade,Direct your eye-sight inward, and you'le findA thousand regions in your mindYet undiscover'd. Travell them, and beExpert in home Cosmographie.This you may doe safe both from rocke and shelfe:Man's a whole world within him selfe.

You'd leave the silence in which safe we are,To listen to the noyse of warre;And walke those rugged paths, the factious tread,Who by the number of the deadReckon their glories, and thinke greatnesse stoodUnsafe, till it was built on blood.Secure ith' wall our Seas and ships provide(Abhorring wars so barb'rous prideAnd honour bought with slaughter) in contentLets breath though humble, innocent.Folly and madnesse! Since 'tis ods we nereSee the fresh youth of the next yeare.Perhaps not the chast morne, her selfe discloseAgaine, t'out-blush th' æmulous rose,Why doth ambition so the mind distresseTo make us scorne what we possesse?And looke so farre before us? Since all weCan hope, is varied misery?Goe find some whispering shade neareArneorPoe,And gently 'mong their violets throwYour wearyed limbs, and see if all those faireEnchantments can charme griefe or care?Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when youThe ruin'd Capitoll shall viewAnd statues, a disorder'd heape; you canNot cure yet the disease of man,And banish your owne thoughts. Goe travaile whereAnother Sun and Starres appeare,And land not toucht by any covetous fleet,And yet even there your selfe you'le meet.Stay here then, and while curious exiles findNew toyes for a fantastique mind;Enjoy at home what's reall: here the SpringBy her aeriall quires doth singAs sweetly to you, as if you were laidUnder the learn'dThessalianshade,Direct your eye-sight inward, and you'le findA thousand regions in your mindYet undiscover'd. Travell them, and beExpert in home Cosmographie.This you may doe safe both from rocke and shelfe:Man's a whole world within him selfe.

You'd leave the silence in which safe we are,

To listen to the noyse of warre;

And walke those rugged paths, the factious tread,

Who by the number of the dead

Reckon their glories, and thinke greatnesse stood

Unsafe, till it was built on blood.

Secure ith' wall our Seas and ships provide

(Abhorring wars so barb'rous pride

And honour bought with slaughter) in content

Lets breath though humble, innocent.

Folly and madnesse! Since 'tis ods we nere

See the fresh youth of the next yeare.

Perhaps not the chast morne, her selfe disclose

Againe, t'out-blush th' æmulous rose,

Why doth ambition so the mind distresse

To make us scorne what we possesse?

And looke so farre before us? Since all we

Can hope, is varied misery?

Goe find some whispering shade neareArneorPoe,

And gently 'mong their violets throw

Your wearyed limbs, and see if all those faire

Enchantments can charme griefe or care?

Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when you

The ruin'd Capitoll shall view

And statues, a disorder'd heape; you can

Not cure yet the disease of man,

And banish your owne thoughts. Goe travaile where

Another Sun and Starres appeare,

And land not toucht by any covetous fleet,

And yet even there your selfe you'le meet.

Stay here then, and while curious exiles find

New toyes for a fantastique mind;

Enjoy at home what's reall: here the Spring

By her aeriall quires doth sing

As sweetly to you, as if you were laid

Under the learn'dThessalianshade,

Direct your eye-sight inward, and you'le find

A thousand regions in your mind

Yet undiscover'd. Travell them, and be

Expert in home Cosmographie.

This you may doe safe both from rocke and shelfe:

Man's a whole world within him selfe.

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