Chapter 17

To Castara.Give me a heart where no impureDisorder'd passions rage,Which jealousie doth not obscure,Not vanity t' expence ingage,Nor wooed to madnesse by quient oathes,Or the fine Rhetoricke of cloathes,Which not the softnesse of the ageTo vice or folly doth decline;Give me that heart (Castara) for 'tis thine.Take thou a heart where no new lookeProvokes new appetite:With no fresh charme of beauty tooke,Or wanton stratagem of wit;Not Idly wandring here and there,Led by an am'rous eye or eare.Ayming each beautious marke to hit;Which vertue doth to one confine:Take thou that heart,Castara, for 'tis mine.And now my heart is lodg'd with thee,Observe but how it stillDoth listen how thine doth with me;And guard it well, for else it willRunne hither backe; not to be whereI am, but 'cause thy heart is here.But without discipline, or skill.Our hearts shall freely 'tweene us move;Should thou or I want hearts, wee'd breath by love.ToCastara.Of true delight.Why doth the eare so tempt the voyce,That cunningly divides the ayre?Why doth the pallate buy the choyceDelights oth' sea, to enrich her fare?As soone as I, my eare obeyThe Eccho's lost even with the breath.And when the sewer takes awayI'me left with no more taste, then death.Be curious in pursuite of eyesTo procreate new loves with thine;Satiety makes sence despiseWhat superstition thought divine.Quicke fancy how it mockes delight?As we conceive, things are not such,The glow-worme is as warme as bright,Till the deceitfull flame we touch.When I have sold my heart to lust,And bought repentance with a kisseI find the malice of my dust,That told me hell contain'd a blisse.The Rose yeelds her sweete blandishmentLost in the fold of lovers wreathes,The violet enchants the sent,When earely in the Spring she breaths.But winter comes and makes each flowreShrinke from the pillow where it growes,Or an intruding cold hath powreTo scorne the perfume of the Rose.Our sences like false glasses showSmooth beauty where browes wrinkled are,And makes the cosen'd fancy glow.Chaste vertue's onely true[33]and faire.[33]chaste. 1635.To my noblest Friend,I. C.Esquire.Sir,I hate the Countries durt and manners, yetI love the silence; I embrace the witAnd courtship, flowing here in a full tide.But loathe the expence, the vanity, and pride.No place each way is happy. Here I holdCommerce with some, who to my eare unfold(After a due oath ministred) the heightAnd greatnesse of each star shines in the state:The brightnesse, the eclypse, the influence.With others I commune, who tell me whenceThe torrent doth of forraigne discord flow:Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,Soone as they happen; and by rote can tellThoseGermanetownes, even puzzle me to spell.The crosse or prosperous fate of Princes, theyAscribe to rashnesse, cunning, or delay:And on each action comment, with more skillThen uponLivy, did oldMachavill.O busie folly! Why doe I my brainePerplex with the dull pollicies ofSpaine,Or quicke designes ofFrance? Why not repaireTo the pure innocence oth' Country ayre:And neighbor thee, deare friend? Who so dost giveThy thoughts to worth and vertue, that to liveBlest, is to trace thy wayes. There might not weArme against passion with Philosophie;And by the aide of leisure, so controule,What-ere is earth in us, to grow all soule?Knowledge doth ignorance ingender whenWe study misteries of other menAnd forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade(Thy head upon some flowry pillow laide,Kind Natures huswifery) contemplate allHis stratagems who labours to inthrallThe world to his great Master; and youle findeAmbition mocks it selfe, and grasps the wind.Not conquest makes us great. Blood is to deareA price for glory: Honour doth appeareTo statesmen like a vision in the night,And jugler-like workes oth' deluded sight.Th' unbusied onely wise: For no respectIndangers them to error; They affectTruth in her naked beauty, and beholdMan with an equall eye, not bright in goldOr tall in title; so much him they weighAs Vertue raiseth him above his clay.Thus let us value things: And since we findTime bends us toward death, lets in our mindCreate new youth; and arme against the rudeAssaults of age; that no dull solitudeOth' country dead our thoughts, nor busie careOth' towne make us not thinke, where now we areAnd whether we are bound. Time nere forgotHis journey, though his steps we numbred not.ToCastara.What Lovers will say when she and he are dead.I wonder when w'are dead, what men will say;Will not poore Orphan Lovers weepe.The parents of their Loves decay;And envy death the treasure of our sleepe?Will not each trembling Virgin bring her fearesTo th' holy silence of my Urne?And chide the Marble with her teares,Cause she so soone faith's obsequie must mourne.For had Fate spar'd butAraphill(she'le say)He had the great example stood,And forc't unconstant man obeyThe law of Loves Religion, not of blood.And youth by female perjury betraid,Will toCastara'sshrine deploreHis injuries, and death obrayd,That woman lives more guilty, then before.For while thy breathing purified the ayreThy Sex (hee'le say) did onely moveBy the chaste influence of a faire,Whose vertue shin'd in the bright orbe of love.Now woman, like a Meteor vapor'd forthFrom dunghills, doth amaze our eyes;Not shining with a reall worth,But subtile her blacke errors to disguise.Thus will they talke,Castara, while our dustIn one darke vault shall mingled be.The world will fall a prey to lust,When Love is dead, which hath one fate with me.To his Muse.Here Virgin fix thy pillars, and commandThey sacred may to after ages standIn witnesse of loves triumph. Yet will weCastara, find new worlds in Poetry,And conquer them. Not dully following thoseTame lovers, who dare cloth their thoughts in prose.But we will henceforth more Religious prove,Concealing the high mysteries of loveFrom the prophane. Harmonious like the spheares,Our soules shall move, not reacht by humane eares.That Musicke to the Angels, this to fame,I here commit. That when their holy flame,True lovers to pure beauties would rehearse,They may invoke theGeniusof my verse.FINIS.

Give me a heart where no impureDisorder'd passions rage,Which jealousie doth not obscure,Not vanity t' expence ingage,Nor wooed to madnesse by quient oathes,Or the fine Rhetoricke of cloathes,Which not the softnesse of the ageTo vice or folly doth decline;Give me that heart (Castara) for 'tis thine.

Give me a heart where no impure

Disorder'd passions rage,

Which jealousie doth not obscure,

Not vanity t' expence ingage,

Nor wooed to madnesse by quient oathes,

Or the fine Rhetoricke of cloathes,

Which not the softnesse of the age

To vice or folly doth decline;

Give me that heart (Castara) for 'tis thine.

Take thou a heart where no new lookeProvokes new appetite:With no fresh charme of beauty tooke,Or wanton stratagem of wit;Not Idly wandring here and there,Led by an am'rous eye or eare.Ayming each beautious marke to hit;Which vertue doth to one confine:Take thou that heart,Castara, for 'tis mine.

Take thou a heart where no new looke

Provokes new appetite:

With no fresh charme of beauty tooke,

Or wanton stratagem of wit;

Not Idly wandring here and there,

Led by an am'rous eye or eare.

Ayming each beautious marke to hit;

Which vertue doth to one confine:

Take thou that heart,Castara, for 'tis mine.

And now my heart is lodg'd with thee,Observe but how it stillDoth listen how thine doth with me;And guard it well, for else it willRunne hither backe; not to be whereI am, but 'cause thy heart is here.But without discipline, or skill.Our hearts shall freely 'tweene us move;Should thou or I want hearts, wee'd breath by love.

And now my heart is lodg'd with thee,

Observe but how it still

Doth listen how thine doth with me;

And guard it well, for else it will

Runne hither backe; not to be where

I am, but 'cause thy heart is here.

But without discipline, or skill.

Our hearts shall freely 'tweene us move;

Should thou or I want hearts, wee'd breath by love.

ToCastara.Of true delight.Why doth the eare so tempt the voyce,That cunningly divides the ayre?Why doth the pallate buy the choyceDelights oth' sea, to enrich her fare?As soone as I, my eare obeyThe Eccho's lost even with the breath.And when the sewer takes awayI'me left with no more taste, then death.Be curious in pursuite of eyesTo procreate new loves with thine;Satiety makes sence despiseWhat superstition thought divine.Quicke fancy how it mockes delight?As we conceive, things are not such,The glow-worme is as warme as bright,Till the deceitfull flame we touch.When I have sold my heart to lust,And bought repentance with a kisseI find the malice of my dust,That told me hell contain'd a blisse.The Rose yeelds her sweete blandishmentLost in the fold of lovers wreathes,The violet enchants the sent,When earely in the Spring she breaths.But winter comes and makes each flowreShrinke from the pillow where it growes,Or an intruding cold hath powreTo scorne the perfume of the Rose.Our sences like false glasses showSmooth beauty where browes wrinkled are,And makes the cosen'd fancy glow.Chaste vertue's onely true[33]and faire.[33]chaste. 1635.

Why doth the eare so tempt the voyce,That cunningly divides the ayre?Why doth the pallate buy the choyceDelights oth' sea, to enrich her fare?

Why doth the eare so tempt the voyce,

That cunningly divides the ayre?

Why doth the pallate buy the choyce

Delights oth' sea, to enrich her fare?

As soone as I, my eare obeyThe Eccho's lost even with the breath.And when the sewer takes awayI'me left with no more taste, then death.

As soone as I, my eare obey

The Eccho's lost even with the breath.

And when the sewer takes away

I'me left with no more taste, then death.

Be curious in pursuite of eyesTo procreate new loves with thine;Satiety makes sence despiseWhat superstition thought divine.

Be curious in pursuite of eyes

To procreate new loves with thine;

Satiety makes sence despise

What superstition thought divine.

Quicke fancy how it mockes delight?As we conceive, things are not such,The glow-worme is as warme as bright,Till the deceitfull flame we touch.

Quicke fancy how it mockes delight?

As we conceive, things are not such,

The glow-worme is as warme as bright,

Till the deceitfull flame we touch.

When I have sold my heart to lust,And bought repentance with a kisseI find the malice of my dust,That told me hell contain'd a blisse.

When I have sold my heart to lust,

And bought repentance with a kisse

I find the malice of my dust,

That told me hell contain'd a blisse.

The Rose yeelds her sweete blandishmentLost in the fold of lovers wreathes,The violet enchants the sent,When earely in the Spring she breaths.

The Rose yeelds her sweete blandishment

Lost in the fold of lovers wreathes,

The violet enchants the sent,

When earely in the Spring she breaths.

But winter comes and makes each flowreShrinke from the pillow where it growes,Or an intruding cold hath powreTo scorne the perfume of the Rose.

But winter comes and makes each flowre

Shrinke from the pillow where it growes,

Or an intruding cold hath powre

To scorne the perfume of the Rose.

Our sences like false glasses showSmooth beauty where browes wrinkled are,And makes the cosen'd fancy glow.Chaste vertue's onely true[33]and faire.

Our sences like false glasses show

Smooth beauty where browes wrinkled are,

And makes the cosen'd fancy glow.

Chaste vertue's onely true[33]and faire.

[33]chaste. 1635.

To my noblest Friend,I. C.Esquire.Sir,I hate the Countries durt and manners, yetI love the silence; I embrace the witAnd courtship, flowing here in a full tide.But loathe the expence, the vanity, and pride.No place each way is happy. Here I holdCommerce with some, who to my eare unfold(After a due oath ministred) the heightAnd greatnesse of each star shines in the state:The brightnesse, the eclypse, the influence.With others I commune, who tell me whenceThe torrent doth of forraigne discord flow:Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,Soone as they happen; and by rote can tellThoseGermanetownes, even puzzle me to spell.The crosse or prosperous fate of Princes, theyAscribe to rashnesse, cunning, or delay:And on each action comment, with more skillThen uponLivy, did oldMachavill.O busie folly! Why doe I my brainePerplex with the dull pollicies ofSpaine,Or quicke designes ofFrance? Why not repaireTo the pure innocence oth' Country ayre:And neighbor thee, deare friend? Who so dost giveThy thoughts to worth and vertue, that to liveBlest, is to trace thy wayes. There might not weArme against passion with Philosophie;And by the aide of leisure, so controule,What-ere is earth in us, to grow all soule?Knowledge doth ignorance ingender whenWe study misteries of other menAnd forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade(Thy head upon some flowry pillow laide,Kind Natures huswifery) contemplate allHis stratagems who labours to inthrallThe world to his great Master; and youle findeAmbition mocks it selfe, and grasps the wind.Not conquest makes us great. Blood is to deareA price for glory: Honour doth appeareTo statesmen like a vision in the night,And jugler-like workes oth' deluded sight.Th' unbusied onely wise: For no respectIndangers them to error; They affectTruth in her naked beauty, and beholdMan with an equall eye, not bright in goldOr tall in title; so much him they weighAs Vertue raiseth him above his clay.Thus let us value things: And since we findTime bends us toward death, lets in our mindCreate new youth; and arme against the rudeAssaults of age; that no dull solitudeOth' country dead our thoughts, nor busie careOth' towne make us not thinke, where now we areAnd whether we are bound. Time nere forgotHis journey, though his steps we numbred not.

Sir,

I hate the Countries durt and manners, yetI love the silence; I embrace the witAnd courtship, flowing here in a full tide.But loathe the expence, the vanity, and pride.No place each way is happy. Here I holdCommerce with some, who to my eare unfold(After a due oath ministred) the heightAnd greatnesse of each star shines in the state:The brightnesse, the eclypse, the influence.With others I commune, who tell me whenceThe torrent doth of forraigne discord flow:Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,Soone as they happen; and by rote can tellThoseGermanetownes, even puzzle me to spell.The crosse or prosperous fate of Princes, theyAscribe to rashnesse, cunning, or delay:And on each action comment, with more skillThen uponLivy, did oldMachavill.O busie folly! Why doe I my brainePerplex with the dull pollicies ofSpaine,Or quicke designes ofFrance? Why not repaireTo the pure innocence oth' Country ayre:And neighbor thee, deare friend? Who so dost giveThy thoughts to worth and vertue, that to liveBlest, is to trace thy wayes. There might not weArme against passion with Philosophie;And by the aide of leisure, so controule,What-ere is earth in us, to grow all soule?Knowledge doth ignorance ingender whenWe study misteries of other menAnd forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade(Thy head upon some flowry pillow laide,Kind Natures huswifery) contemplate allHis stratagems who labours to inthrallThe world to his great Master; and youle findeAmbition mocks it selfe, and grasps the wind.Not conquest makes us great. Blood is to deareA price for glory: Honour doth appeareTo statesmen like a vision in the night,And jugler-like workes oth' deluded sight.Th' unbusied onely wise: For no respectIndangers them to error; They affectTruth in her naked beauty, and beholdMan with an equall eye, not bright in goldOr tall in title; so much him they weighAs Vertue raiseth him above his clay.Thus let us value things: And since we findTime bends us toward death, lets in our mindCreate new youth; and arme against the rudeAssaults of age; that no dull solitudeOth' country dead our thoughts, nor busie careOth' towne make us not thinke, where now we areAnd whether we are bound. Time nere forgotHis journey, though his steps we numbred not.

I hate the Countries durt and manners, yet

I love the silence; I embrace the wit

And courtship, flowing here in a full tide.

But loathe the expence, the vanity, and pride.

No place each way is happy. Here I hold

Commerce with some, who to my eare unfold

(After a due oath ministred) the height

And greatnesse of each star shines in the state:

The brightnesse, the eclypse, the influence.

With others I commune, who tell me whence

The torrent doth of forraigne discord flow:

Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,

Soone as they happen; and by rote can tell

ThoseGermanetownes, even puzzle me to spell.

The crosse or prosperous fate of Princes, they

Ascribe to rashnesse, cunning, or delay:

And on each action comment, with more skill

Then uponLivy, did oldMachavill.

O busie folly! Why doe I my braine

Perplex with the dull pollicies ofSpaine,

Or quicke designes ofFrance? Why not repaire

To the pure innocence oth' Country ayre:

And neighbor thee, deare friend? Who so dost give

Thy thoughts to worth and vertue, that to live

Blest, is to trace thy wayes. There might not we

Arme against passion with Philosophie;

And by the aide of leisure, so controule,

What-ere is earth in us, to grow all soule?

Knowledge doth ignorance ingender when

We study misteries of other men

And forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade

(Thy head upon some flowry pillow laide,

Kind Natures huswifery) contemplate all

His stratagems who labours to inthrall

The world to his great Master; and youle finde

Ambition mocks it selfe, and grasps the wind.

Not conquest makes us great. Blood is to deare

A price for glory: Honour doth appeare

To statesmen like a vision in the night,

And jugler-like workes oth' deluded sight.

Th' unbusied onely wise: For no respect

Indangers them to error; They affect

Truth in her naked beauty, and behold

Man with an equall eye, not bright in gold

Or tall in title; so much him they weigh

As Vertue raiseth him above his clay.

Thus let us value things: And since we find

Time bends us toward death, lets in our mind

Create new youth; and arme against the rude

Assaults of age; that no dull solitude

Oth' country dead our thoughts, nor busie care

Oth' towne make us not thinke, where now we are

And whether we are bound. Time nere forgot

His journey, though his steps we numbred not.

ToCastara.What Lovers will say when she and he are dead.I wonder when w'are dead, what men will say;Will not poore Orphan Lovers weepe.The parents of their Loves decay;And envy death the treasure of our sleepe?Will not each trembling Virgin bring her fearesTo th' holy silence of my Urne?And chide the Marble with her teares,Cause she so soone faith's obsequie must mourne.For had Fate spar'd butAraphill(she'le say)He had the great example stood,And forc't unconstant man obeyThe law of Loves Religion, not of blood.And youth by female perjury betraid,Will toCastara'sshrine deploreHis injuries, and death obrayd,That woman lives more guilty, then before.For while thy breathing purified the ayreThy Sex (hee'le say) did onely moveBy the chaste influence of a faire,Whose vertue shin'd in the bright orbe of love.Now woman, like a Meteor vapor'd forthFrom dunghills, doth amaze our eyes;Not shining with a reall worth,But subtile her blacke errors to disguise.Thus will they talke,Castara, while our dustIn one darke vault shall mingled be.The world will fall a prey to lust,When Love is dead, which hath one fate with me.

I wonder when w'are dead, what men will say;Will not poore Orphan Lovers weepe.The parents of their Loves decay;And envy death the treasure of our sleepe?

I wonder when w'are dead, what men will say;

Will not poore Orphan Lovers weepe.

The parents of their Loves decay;

And envy death the treasure of our sleepe?

Will not each trembling Virgin bring her fearesTo th' holy silence of my Urne?And chide the Marble with her teares,Cause she so soone faith's obsequie must mourne.

Will not each trembling Virgin bring her feares

To th' holy silence of my Urne?

And chide the Marble with her teares,

Cause she so soone faith's obsequie must mourne.

For had Fate spar'd butAraphill(she'le say)He had the great example stood,And forc't unconstant man obeyThe law of Loves Religion, not of blood.

For had Fate spar'd butAraphill(she'le say)

He had the great example stood,

And forc't unconstant man obey

The law of Loves Religion, not of blood.

And youth by female perjury betraid,Will toCastara'sshrine deploreHis injuries, and death obrayd,That woman lives more guilty, then before.

And youth by female perjury betraid,

Will toCastara'sshrine deplore

His injuries, and death obrayd,

That woman lives more guilty, then before.

For while thy breathing purified the ayreThy Sex (hee'le say) did onely moveBy the chaste influence of a faire,Whose vertue shin'd in the bright orbe of love.

For while thy breathing purified the ayre

Thy Sex (hee'le say) did onely move

By the chaste influence of a faire,

Whose vertue shin'd in the bright orbe of love.

Now woman, like a Meteor vapor'd forthFrom dunghills, doth amaze our eyes;Not shining with a reall worth,But subtile her blacke errors to disguise.

Now woman, like a Meteor vapor'd forth

From dunghills, doth amaze our eyes;

Not shining with a reall worth,

But subtile her blacke errors to disguise.

Thus will they talke,Castara, while our dustIn one darke vault shall mingled be.The world will fall a prey to lust,When Love is dead, which hath one fate with me.

Thus will they talke,Castara, while our dust

In one darke vault shall mingled be.

The world will fall a prey to lust,

When Love is dead, which hath one fate with me.

To his Muse.Here Virgin fix thy pillars, and commandThey sacred may to after ages standIn witnesse of loves triumph. Yet will weCastara, find new worlds in Poetry,And conquer them. Not dully following thoseTame lovers, who dare cloth their thoughts in prose.But we will henceforth more Religious prove,Concealing the high mysteries of loveFrom the prophane. Harmonious like the spheares,Our soules shall move, not reacht by humane eares.That Musicke to the Angels, this to fame,I here commit. That when their holy flame,True lovers to pure beauties would rehearse,They may invoke theGeniusof my verse.

Here Virgin fix thy pillars, and commandThey sacred may to after ages standIn witnesse of loves triumph. Yet will weCastara, find new worlds in Poetry,And conquer them. Not dully following thoseTame lovers, who dare cloth their thoughts in prose.But we will henceforth more Religious prove,Concealing the high mysteries of loveFrom the prophane. Harmonious like the spheares,Our soules shall move, not reacht by humane eares.That Musicke to the Angels, this to fame,I here commit. That when their holy flame,True lovers to pure beauties would rehearse,They may invoke theGeniusof my verse.

Here Virgin fix thy pillars, and command

They sacred may to after ages stand

In witnesse of loves triumph. Yet will we

Castara, find new worlds in Poetry,

And conquer them. Not dully following those

Tame lovers, who dare cloth their thoughts in prose.

But we will henceforth more Religious prove,

Concealing the high mysteries of love

From the prophane. Harmonious like the spheares,

Our soules shall move, not reacht by humane eares.

That Musicke to the Angels, this to fame,

I here commit. That when their holy flame,

True lovers to pure beauties would rehearse,

They may invoke theGeniusof my verse.

FINIS.

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