Fifty-seven Poems, chiefly on Love and Courtship.

Fifty-seven Poems, chiefly on Love and Courtship.ToCastara.A Sacrifice.Let the chaste Phœnix from the flowry East,Bring the sweete treasure of her perfum'd nest,As incense to this Altar, where the nameOf myCastara'sgrav'd by th' hand of fame.Let purer Virgins, to redeeme the aireFrom loose infection, bring their zealous prayer,T' assist at this great feast: where they shall see,What rites Love offers up to Chastity.Let all the amorous Youth, whose faire desireFelt never warmth, but from a noble fire,Bring hither their brightflames: which here shall shineAs Tapers fixt aboutCastara'sshrine.While I the Priest, my untam'd heart, surprise,And in this Temple mak't her sacrifice.ToCastara,Praying.I sawCastarapray, and from the skie,A winged legion of bright Angels flieTo catch her vowes, for feare her Virgin prayerMight chance to mingle with impurer aire.To vulgar eyes, the sacred truth I write,May seeme a fancie. But the Eagles sightOf Saints, and Poets, miracles oft view,Which to dull Heretikes appeare untrue.Faire zeale begets such wonders. O divineAnd purest beauty; let me thee enshrineIn my devoted soule, and from thy praise,T' enrich my garland, pluck religious Bayes.Shine thou the starre by which my thoughts shall move,Best subject of my pen, Queene of my love.To Roses in the bosome ofCastara.Yee blushing Virgins happie areIn the chaste Nunn'ry of her brests,For hee'd prophane so chaste a faire,Who ere should call themCupidsnests.Transplanted thus how bright yee grow,How rich a perfume doe yee yeeld?In some close garden, Cowslips soAre sweeter then ith' open field.In those white Cloysters live secureFrom the rude blasts of wanton breath,Each houre more innocent and pure,Till you shall wither into death.Then that which living gave you roome,Your glorious sepulcher shall be.There wants no marble for a tombe,Whose brest hath marble beene to me.ToCastara,A Vow.By those chaste lamps which yeeld a silent light,To the cold Urnes of Virgins; By that night,Which guilty of no crime, doth onely heareThe Vowes of recluse Nuns, and th' An'thrits prayer;And by thy chaster selfe; My fervent zealeLike mountaine yee, which the North winds congeale,To purest Christall, feeles no wanton fire.But as the humble Pilgrim, (whose desireBlest in Christs cottage, view by Angels hands,Transported from sad Bethlem,) wondring standsAt the great miracle: So I at thee,Whose beauty is the shrine of chastity.Thus my bright Muse in a new orbe shall move,And even teach Religion how to love.ToCastara,Of his being in Love.Where am I? not in Heaven: for oh I feeleThe stone ofSisiphus,Ixionswheele;And all those tortures, Poets (by their wineMade judges) laid onTantalus, are mine.Not yet am I in hell; for still I stand,Though giddy in my passion, on firme land,And still behold the seasons of the yeare,Springs in my hope, and Winters in my feare.And sure I'me 'bove the earth: For th' highest starShoots beames, but dim to whatCastara'sare,And in her sight and favour I even shineIn a bright orbe beyond the Christalline.If thenCastaraI in Heaven nor move,Nor Earth, nor Hell; where am I but in Love?To my honoured Friend, Mr. E. P.Not still ith' shine of Kings. Thou dost retireSometime to th' Holy shade, where the chaste quireOf Muses doth the stubborne Panther awe,And give the wildernesse of his nature law.The wind his chariot stops: Th' attentive rockeThe rigor doth of its creation mocke,And gently melts away:Argusto heareThe musicke, turnes each eye into an eare.To welcome thee,Endymion, glorious theyTriumph to force these creatures disobeyWhat nature hath enacted. But no charmeThe Muses have these monsters can disarmeOf their innated rage: No spell can tameThe North-winds fury, butCastara'sname.Climbe yonder forked hill, and see if thereIth' barke of every Daphne, not appeareCastarawritten; And so markt by me,How great a Prophet growes each Virgin tree?Lie downe, and listen what the sacred springIn her harmonious murmures, strives to singTo th' neighb'ring banke, ere her loose waters erreThrough common channels; sings she not of her?Behold yond' violet, which such honour gaines,That growing but to emulate her veines,It's azur'd like the skie: when she doth bowT' invokeCastara, heav'n perfumes her vow.The trees the water, and the flowers adoreThe Deity of her sex, and through each poreBreath forth her glories. But unquiet love[5]To make thy passions so uncourtly prove,As if all eares should heare her praise alone.Now listen thou;Endymionsings his owne.[5]To make affection so ill-nurtur'd prove. 1634, 1635.ToCastara.Doe not their prophane Orgies heare,Who but to wealth no altars reare,The soule's oft poys'ned through the eare.Castararather seeke to dwellIth' silence of a private cell.Rich discontent's a glorious hell.YetHindlipdoth not want extentOf roome (though not magnificent)To give free welcome to content.There shalt thou see the earely Spring,That wealthy stocke of nature bring,Of which the Sybils bookes did sing.From fruitlesse Palmes shall honey flow,And barren Winter Harvest show,While Lilies in his bosome grow,No North-winde shall the corne infest,But the soft spirit of the East,Our sent with perfum'd banquets feast.A Satyre here and there shall trip,In hope to purchase leave to sipSweete Nectar from a Fairies lip.The Nimphs with quivers shall adorneTheir active sides, and rouse the morneWith the shrill musicke of their horne.Wakened with which, and viewing thee,FaireDaphneher faire selfe shall free,From the chaste prison of a tree:And withNarcissus(to thy faceWho humbly will ascribe all grace)Shall once againe pursue the chase.So they, whose wisdome did discusseOf these as fictions: shall in usFinde, they were more then fabulous.ToCastara,Softly singing to her selfe.Sing forth sweete Cherubin (for we have choiceOf reasons in thy beauty and the voyce,To name thee so, and scarce appeare prophane)Sing forth, that while the orbs celestiall straineTo eccho thy sweete note, our humane earesMay then receive the Musicke of the Spheares.But yet take heede, lest if the Swans of Thames,That adde harmonious pleasure to the streames,Oth' sudden heare thy well-divided breath,Should listen, and in silence welcome death:And ravisht Nightingales, striving too highTo reach thee, in the emulation dye.And thus there will be left no bird to singFarewell to th' Waters, welcome to the Spring.To a Wanton.In vaine faire sorceresse, thy eyes speake charmes,In vaine thou mak'st loose circles with thy armes.I'me 'bove thy spels. No magicke him can move,In whomCastarahath inspir'd her love.As she, keepe thou strict cent'nell o're thy eare,Lest it the whispers of soft Courtiers heare;Reade not his raptures, whose invention mustWrite journey worke, both for his Patrons lust,And his owne plush: let no admirer feastHis eye oth' naked banquet of thy brest.If this faire president, nor yet my wantOf love, to answer thine, make thee recantThy sorc'ries; Pity shall to justice turne,And judge thee, witch, in thy owne flames to burne.To the Honourable my much honoured friend, R. B.Esquire.While you dare trust the loudest tongue of fame,The zeale you heare your Mistresse to proclaimTo th' talking world: I in the silent'st grove,Scarce to my selfe dare whisper that I love.Thee, titlesBrud'nell, riches thee adorne,And vigorous youth to vice not headlong borneBy th' tide of custome: Which I value moreThen what blind superstitious fooles adore,Who greatnesse in the chaire of blisse enthrone.Greatnesse we borrow, Vertue is our owne.In thy attempt be prosperous, and when ereThou shalt prefix the houre; mayHymenweareHis brightest robe; where some fam'd Persian shallWorke by the wonder of her needle allThe nuptiall joyes; which (if we Poets beTrue Prophets) bounteous heaven designes for thee.I envie not, but glory in thy fate,While in the narrow limits of my stateI bound my hopes. Which ifCastaradaigneOnce to entitle hers; the wealthiest graineMy earth, untild shall beare; my trees shall groneUnder their fruitfull burthen, and at oneAnd the same season, Nature forth shall bringRiches of Autumne, pleasures of the Spring.But digge, and thou shalt finde a purer MineThenth' Indians boast: Taste of this generous Vine,And her blood sweeter will than Nectar prove.Such miracles wait on a noble love.But should she scorne my suite, I'le tread that pathWhich none but some sad Fairy beaten hath.There force wrong'dPhilomel, hearing my mone,To sigh my greater griefes, forget her owne.ToCastara,Inquiring why I loved her.Why doth the stubborne iron proveSo gentle to th' magnetique stone?How know you that the orbs doe move;With musicke too? since heard of none?And I will answer why I love.'Tis not thy vertues, each a starreWhich in thy soules bright spheare doe shine,Shooting their beauties from a farre,To make each gazers heart like thine:Our vertues often Meteors are.'Tis not thy face, I cannot spieWhenPoetsweepe some Virgins death,ThatCupidwantons in her eye,Or perfumes vapour from her breath,And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie.[6]Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne'reSo vaine as in that to delight:Which ballance it, no weight doth beare,Nor yet is object to the sight,But onely fils the vulgar eare.Nor yet thy fortunes: Since I knowThey in their motion like the Sea:Ebbe from the good, to the impious flow:And so in flattery betray,That, raising they but overthrow.And yet these attributes might proveFuell enough t' enflame desire;But there was something from above,Shot without reasons guide, this fire.I know, yet know not, why I love.[6]And there must once thy beauty lie. 1634, 1635.ToCastara,Looking upon him.Transfix me with that flaming dartIth' eye, or brest, or any part,So thou,Castara, spare my heart.The cold Cymerian by that brightWarme wound, ith' darknesse of his night,Might both recover heat, and light.The rugged Scythian gently move,Ith' whispering shadow of some grove,That's consecrate to sportive Love.Decembersee the Primrose grow,The Rivers in soft murmurs flow,And from his head shake off his snow.And crooked age might feele againeThose heates, of which youth did complaine,While fresh blood swels each withered veyne.For the bright lustre of thy eyes,Which but to warme them would suffice,May burne me to a sacrifice.[7]To the right honourable the Countesse ofAr.Wing'd with delight (yet such as still doth beareChaste vertues stamp) those Children of the yeereThe dayes, haste nimbly; and while as they flie,Each of them with their predecessors vie,Which yeelds most pleasure; you to them dispence,What Time lost with his cradle, innocence.So I (if fancie not delude my sight,)See often the pale monarch of the night,Diana, 'mong her nimphs. For every quireOf vulgar starres, who lend their weaker fireTo conquer the nights chilnesse, with their Queene,In harmelesse revels tread the happy greene.But I who am proscrib'd by tyrant love,Seeke out a silent exile in some grove,Where nought except a solitary Spring,Was ever heard, to which the Nimphs did singNarcissusobsequies: For onely thereIs musique apt to catch an am'rous eare.Castara!oh my heart! How great a flameDid even shoot into me with her name?Castarahath betray'd me to a zealeWhich thus distracts my hopes. Flints may concealeIn their cold veynes a fire. But I whose heartBy Love's dissolv'd, ne're practis'd that cold art.But truce thou warring passion, for I'le nowMadam to you addresse this solemne vow.By Vertue and your selfe (best friends) I findeIn the interiour province of your mindeSuch government: That if great men obeyTh' example of your order, they will swayWithout reproofe. For onely you uniteHonour with sweetenesse, vertue with delight.[7]To the right honourable my very good Lady, AnneCountesse ofAr. 1634, 1635.UponCastara'sfrowne or smile.Learned shade ofTycho Brache, who to us,The stars propheticke language didst impart,And even in life their mysteries discusse:Castarahath o'rethrowne thy strongest art.When custome struggles from her beaten path,Then accidents must needs uncertaine be.For ifCastarasmile; though winter hathLock't up the rivers: Summer's warme in me.AndFloraby the miracle reviv'd,Doth even at her owne beauty wondring stand.But should she frowne, the Northerne wind arriv'd,In midst of Summer, leads his frozen band:Which doth to yce my youthfull blood congeale,Yet in the midst of yce, still flames my zeale.ToCastara,All fortunes.Ye glorious wits, who finde then Parian stone,A nobler quarry to build trophies on,Purchast 'gainst conquer'd time; Go court loud fame,He wins it, who but singsCastara'sname?Aspiring soules, who grow but in a Spring,Forc't by the warmth of some indulgent King:Know ifCastarasmile: I dwell in it,And vie for glory with the Favorit.Ye sonnes of avarice, who but to shareUncertaine treasure with a certaine care.Tempt death in th' horrid Ocean: I, when ereI but approach her, find the Indies there.Heaven brightest Saint, kinde to my vowes made theeOf all ambition courts, th' Epitome.Upon thoughtCastaramay dye.If she should dye, (as well suspect we may,A body so compact should ne're decay)Her brighter soule would in the Moone inspireMore chastity, in dimmer starres more fire.You twins ofLæda(as your parents areIn their wild lusts) may grow irregularNow in your motion: for the marrinerHenceforth shall onely steere his course by her.And when the zeale of after time[8]shall spieHer uncorrupt ith' happy marble lie;The roses in her cheekes unwithered,'Twill turne to love, and dote upon the dead.For he who did to her in life dispenceA heaven, will banish all corruption thence.[8]times. 1634.Time to the moments, on sight ofCastara.You younger children of your father stay,Swift flying moments (which divide the dayAnd with your number measure out the yeareIn various seasons) stay and wonder here.For since my cradle, I so bright a graceNe're saw, as you see inCastara'sface;Whom nature to revenge some youthfull crimeWould never frame, till age had weakened Time.Else spight of fate, in some faire forme of clayMy youth I'de bodied, throwne my sythe away,And broke my glasse. But since that cannot be,I'le punish Nature for her injurie.On nimble moments in your journey flie,Castarashall like me, grow old, and die.To a friend inquiring her name, whom he loved.Fond Love himselfe hopes to disguiseFrom view, if he but covered lies,Ith' veile of my transparent eyes.Though in a smile himselfe he hide,Or in a sigh, thou art so trideIn all his arts, hee'le be discride.I must confesse (Deare friend) my flame,Whose boastsCastaraso doth tame,That not thy faith, shall know her name.Twere prophanation of my zeale,If but abroad one whisper steale,They love betray, who him reveale.In a darke cave which never eyeCould by his subtlest ray descry,It doth like a rich minerall lye.Which is she with her flame refine,I'de force it from that obscure Mine,And then it like pure should shine.A Dialogue betweeneHopeandFeare.Feare.Checke thy forward thoughts, and knowHymenonely joynes their hands;Who with even paces goe,Shee in gold, he rich in lands.Hope.ButCastara'spurer fire,When it meetes a noble flame:Shuns the smoke of such desire,Joynes with love, and burnes the same.Feare.Yet obedience must prevaile,They who o're her actions sway:Would have her in th' Ocean saile,And contemne thy narrow sea.Hope.Parents lawes must beare no weightWhen they happinesse prevent.And our sea is not so streight,But it roome hath for content.Feare.Thousand hearts as victims stand,At the Altar of her eyes.And will partiall she command,Onely thine for sacrifice?Hope.Thousand victims must returne;Shee the purest will designe:ChooseCastarawhich shall burne,Choose the purest, that is, mine.ToCupid,Upon a dimple inCastara'scheeke.Nimble boy in thy warme flight,What cold tyrant dimm'd thy sight?Hadst thou eyes to see my faire,Thou wouldst sigh thy selfe to ayre:Fearing to create this one,Nature had her selfe undone.But if you when this you heareFall downe murdered through your eare,Begge ofJovethat you may haveIn her cheeke a dimpled grave.Lilly, Rose, and Violet,Shall the perfum'd Hearse besetWhile a beauteous sheet of Lawne,O're the wanton corps is drawne:And all lovers use this breath;"Here liesCupidblest in death."UponCupid'sdeath and buriall inCastara'scheeke.Cupidsdead. Who would not dye,To be interr'd so neere her eye?Who would feare the sword, to haveSuch an Alabaster grave?O're which two bright tapers burne,To give light to the beauteous Urne.At the firstCastarasmil'd,ThinkingCupidher beguil'd,Onely counterfeiting death.But when she perceiv'd his breathQuite expir'd: the mournefull Girle,To entombe the boy in Pearle,Wept so long; till pittiousJove,From the ashes of this Love,Made ten thousandCupidsrise,But confin'd them to her eyes:Where they yet, to shew they lackeNo due sorrow, still weare blacke.But the blacks so glorious areWhich they mourne in, that the faireQuires of starres, look pale and fret,Seeing themselves out shin'd by jet.ToFame.Fly on thy swiftest wing, ambitious Fame,And speake to the cold NorthCastara'sname:Which very breath will, like the East wind, bringThe temp'rate warmth, and musicke of the Spring.Then from the Articke to th' Antarticke Pole,Haste nimbly and inspire a gentler soule,By naming her, ith' torrid South; that heMay milde asZephiruscoole whispers be.Nor let the West where heaven already joynes,The vastest Empire, and the wealthiest Mines:Nor th' East in pleasures wanton, her condemne,For not distributing her gifts on them.For she with want would have her bounty meete.Loves noble charity is so discreete.A Dialogue betweeneAraphillandCastara.Araph.Dost not thouCastarareadAm'rous volumes in my eyes?Doth not every motion pleadWhat I'de shew, and yet disguise?Sences act each others part.Eyes, as tongues, reveale the heart.Cast.I saw love, as lightning breakeFrom thy eyes, and was contentOft to heare thy silence speake.Silent love is eloquent.So the sence of learning heares,The dumbe musicke of the Spheares.Araph.Then there's mercy in your kinde,Listning to an unfain'd love,Or strives he to tame the wind,Who would your compassion move?No y'are pittious, as y're faire.Heaven relents, o'recome by prayer.Cast.But loose man too prodigallIs in the expence of vowes;And thinks to him kingdomes fallWhen the heart of woman bowes:Frailty to your armes may yeeld;Who resists you, wins the field.Araph.Triumph not to see me bleede,Let the Bore chased[9]from his den,On the wounds of mankinde feede.Your soft sexe should pitty men.Malice well may practise Art,Love hath a transparent heart.Cast.Yet is love all one deceit,A warme frost, a frozen fire.She within her selfe is great,Who is slave to no desire.Let youth act, and age advise,And then love may finde his eyes.Araph.Hymenstorch yeelds a dim light,When ambition joynes our hands.A proud day, but mournefull night,She sustaines, who marries lands.Wealth slaves man, but for their Ore,Th' Indians had beene free, though poore.Cast.And yet wealth the fuell isWhich maintaines the nuptiall fire,And in honour there's a blisse.Th' are immortall who aspire.But truth sayes, no joyes are sweete,But where hearts united meete.Araph.Roses breath not such a sent,To perfume the neighbr'ing groves;As when you affirme content,In no spheare of glory moves.Glory narrow soules combines:Noble hearts Love onely joynes.[9]chased. 1634, 1635.ToCastara,Intending a journey into the Countrey.Why haste you henceCastara? can the earth,A glorious mother, in her flowry birth,Shew Lillies like thy brow? Can she discloseIn emulation of thy cheeke, a Rose,Sweete as thy blush? Upon thy selfe then setJust value, and scorne it, thy counterfet.The Spring's still with thee; But perhaps the field,Not warm'd with thy approach, wants force to yeeld,Her tribute to the Plough; O rather letTh' ingratefull earth for ever be in debtTo th' hope of sweating industry, than weShould starve with cold, who have no heat but thee.Nor feare the publike good. Thy eyes can giveA life to all, who can deserve to live.UponCastara'sdeparture.I am engag'd to sorrow, and my heartFeeles a distracted rage. Though you departAnd leave me to my feares; let love in spiteOf absence, our divided soules unite.But you must goe. The melancholy DovesDrawVenuschariot hence. The sportive LovesWhich wont to wanton here, hence with you flye,And like false friends forsake me when I dye.For but a walking tombe, what can he be;Whose best of life is forc't to part with thee?ToCastara,Upon a trembling kisse at departure.Th' Arabian wind, whose breathing gently blowsPurple to th' Violet, blushes to the Rose;Did never yeeld an odour rich as this.Why are you then so thrifty of a kisse,Authoriz'd even by custome? Why doth feareSo tremble on your lip, my lip being neare?Thinke you I parting with so sad a zeale,Will act so blacke a mischiefe, as to stealeThy Roses thence? And they, by this device,Transplanted: somewhere else force Paradice?Or else you feare, lest you, should my heart skipUp to my mouth, t' incounter with your lip,Might rob me of it: and be judg'd in this,T' haveJudaslike betraid me with a kisse.ToCastara,Looking backe at her departing.Looke backeCastara. From thy eyeLet yet more flaming arrowes flye.To live, is thus to burne and dye.For what might glorious hope desire,But that thy selfe, as I expire,Should bring both death and funerall fire?Distracted Love, shall grieve to seeSuch zeale in death: For feare lest heHimselfe, should be consumed in me.And gathering up my ashes, weepe,That in his teares he then may sleepe:And thus embalm'd, as reliques, keepe.Thither let lovers pilgrims turne,And the loose flames in which they burne,Give up as offerings to my Urne.That them the vertue of my shrine,By miracle so long refine;Till they prove innocent as mine.

ToCastara.A Sacrifice.Let the chaste Phœnix from the flowry East,Bring the sweete treasure of her perfum'd nest,As incense to this Altar, where the nameOf myCastara'sgrav'd by th' hand of fame.Let purer Virgins, to redeeme the aireFrom loose infection, bring their zealous prayer,T' assist at this great feast: where they shall see,What rites Love offers up to Chastity.Let all the amorous Youth, whose faire desireFelt never warmth, but from a noble fire,Bring hither their brightflames: which here shall shineAs Tapers fixt aboutCastara'sshrine.While I the Priest, my untam'd heart, surprise,And in this Temple mak't her sacrifice.

Let the chaste Phœnix from the flowry East,Bring the sweete treasure of her perfum'd nest,As incense to this Altar, where the nameOf myCastara'sgrav'd by th' hand of fame.Let purer Virgins, to redeeme the aireFrom loose infection, bring their zealous prayer,T' assist at this great feast: where they shall see,What rites Love offers up to Chastity.Let all the amorous Youth, whose faire desireFelt never warmth, but from a noble fire,Bring hither their brightflames: which here shall shineAs Tapers fixt aboutCastara'sshrine.While I the Priest, my untam'd heart, surprise,And in this Temple mak't her sacrifice.

Let the chaste Phœnix from the flowry East,

Bring the sweete treasure of her perfum'd nest,

As incense to this Altar, where the name

Of myCastara'sgrav'd by th' hand of fame.

Let purer Virgins, to redeeme the aire

From loose infection, bring their zealous prayer,

T' assist at this great feast: where they shall see,

What rites Love offers up to Chastity.

Let all the amorous Youth, whose faire desire

Felt never warmth, but from a noble fire,

Bring hither their brightflames: which here shall shine

As Tapers fixt aboutCastara'sshrine.

While I the Priest, my untam'd heart, surprise,

And in this Temple mak't her sacrifice.

ToCastara,Praying.I sawCastarapray, and from the skie,A winged legion of bright Angels flieTo catch her vowes, for feare her Virgin prayerMight chance to mingle with impurer aire.To vulgar eyes, the sacred truth I write,May seeme a fancie. But the Eagles sightOf Saints, and Poets, miracles oft view,Which to dull Heretikes appeare untrue.Faire zeale begets such wonders. O divineAnd purest beauty; let me thee enshrineIn my devoted soule, and from thy praise,T' enrich my garland, pluck religious Bayes.Shine thou the starre by which my thoughts shall move,Best subject of my pen, Queene of my love.

I sawCastarapray, and from the skie,A winged legion of bright Angels flieTo catch her vowes, for feare her Virgin prayerMight chance to mingle with impurer aire.To vulgar eyes, the sacred truth I write,May seeme a fancie. But the Eagles sightOf Saints, and Poets, miracles oft view,Which to dull Heretikes appeare untrue.Faire zeale begets such wonders. O divineAnd purest beauty; let me thee enshrineIn my devoted soule, and from thy praise,T' enrich my garland, pluck religious Bayes.Shine thou the starre by which my thoughts shall move,Best subject of my pen, Queene of my love.

I sawCastarapray, and from the skie,

A winged legion of bright Angels flie

To catch her vowes, for feare her Virgin prayer

Might chance to mingle with impurer aire.

To vulgar eyes, the sacred truth I write,

May seeme a fancie. But the Eagles sight

Of Saints, and Poets, miracles oft view,

Which to dull Heretikes appeare untrue.

Faire zeale begets such wonders. O divine

And purest beauty; let me thee enshrine

In my devoted soule, and from thy praise,

T' enrich my garland, pluck religious Bayes.

Shine thou the starre by which my thoughts shall move,

Best subject of my pen, Queene of my love.

To Roses in the bosome ofCastara.Yee blushing Virgins happie areIn the chaste Nunn'ry of her brests,For hee'd prophane so chaste a faire,Who ere should call themCupidsnests.Transplanted thus how bright yee grow,How rich a perfume doe yee yeeld?In some close garden, Cowslips soAre sweeter then ith' open field.In those white Cloysters live secureFrom the rude blasts of wanton breath,Each houre more innocent and pure,Till you shall wither into death.Then that which living gave you roome,Your glorious sepulcher shall be.There wants no marble for a tombe,Whose brest hath marble beene to me.

Yee blushing Virgins happie areIn the chaste Nunn'ry of her brests,For hee'd prophane so chaste a faire,Who ere should call themCupidsnests.

Yee blushing Virgins happie are

In the chaste Nunn'ry of her brests,

For hee'd prophane so chaste a faire,

Who ere should call themCupidsnests.

Transplanted thus how bright yee grow,How rich a perfume doe yee yeeld?In some close garden, Cowslips soAre sweeter then ith' open field.

Transplanted thus how bright yee grow,

How rich a perfume doe yee yeeld?

In some close garden, Cowslips so

Are sweeter then ith' open field.

In those white Cloysters live secureFrom the rude blasts of wanton breath,Each houre more innocent and pure,Till you shall wither into death.

In those white Cloysters live secure

From the rude blasts of wanton breath,

Each houre more innocent and pure,

Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you roome,Your glorious sepulcher shall be.There wants no marble for a tombe,Whose brest hath marble beene to me.

Then that which living gave you roome,

Your glorious sepulcher shall be.

There wants no marble for a tombe,

Whose brest hath marble beene to me.

ToCastara,A Vow.By those chaste lamps which yeeld a silent light,To the cold Urnes of Virgins; By that night,Which guilty of no crime, doth onely heareThe Vowes of recluse Nuns, and th' An'thrits prayer;And by thy chaster selfe; My fervent zealeLike mountaine yee, which the North winds congeale,To purest Christall, feeles no wanton fire.But as the humble Pilgrim, (whose desireBlest in Christs cottage, view by Angels hands,Transported from sad Bethlem,) wondring standsAt the great miracle: So I at thee,Whose beauty is the shrine of chastity.Thus my bright Muse in a new orbe shall move,And even teach Religion how to love.

By those chaste lamps which yeeld a silent light,To the cold Urnes of Virgins; By that night,Which guilty of no crime, doth onely heareThe Vowes of recluse Nuns, and th' An'thrits prayer;And by thy chaster selfe; My fervent zealeLike mountaine yee, which the North winds congeale,To purest Christall, feeles no wanton fire.But as the humble Pilgrim, (whose desireBlest in Christs cottage, view by Angels hands,Transported from sad Bethlem,) wondring standsAt the great miracle: So I at thee,Whose beauty is the shrine of chastity.Thus my bright Muse in a new orbe shall move,And even teach Religion how to love.

By those chaste lamps which yeeld a silent light,

To the cold Urnes of Virgins; By that night,

Which guilty of no crime, doth onely heare

The Vowes of recluse Nuns, and th' An'thrits prayer;

And by thy chaster selfe; My fervent zeale

Like mountaine yee, which the North winds congeale,

To purest Christall, feeles no wanton fire.

But as the humble Pilgrim, (whose desire

Blest in Christs cottage, view by Angels hands,

Transported from sad Bethlem,) wondring stands

At the great miracle: So I at thee,

Whose beauty is the shrine of chastity.

Thus my bright Muse in a new orbe shall move,

And even teach Religion how to love.

ToCastara,Of his being in Love.Where am I? not in Heaven: for oh I feeleThe stone ofSisiphus,Ixionswheele;And all those tortures, Poets (by their wineMade judges) laid onTantalus, are mine.Not yet am I in hell; for still I stand,Though giddy in my passion, on firme land,And still behold the seasons of the yeare,Springs in my hope, and Winters in my feare.And sure I'me 'bove the earth: For th' highest starShoots beames, but dim to whatCastara'sare,And in her sight and favour I even shineIn a bright orbe beyond the Christalline.If thenCastaraI in Heaven nor move,Nor Earth, nor Hell; where am I but in Love?

Where am I? not in Heaven: for oh I feeleThe stone ofSisiphus,Ixionswheele;And all those tortures, Poets (by their wineMade judges) laid onTantalus, are mine.Not yet am I in hell; for still I stand,Though giddy in my passion, on firme land,And still behold the seasons of the yeare,Springs in my hope, and Winters in my feare.And sure I'me 'bove the earth: For th' highest starShoots beames, but dim to whatCastara'sare,And in her sight and favour I even shineIn a bright orbe beyond the Christalline.If thenCastaraI in Heaven nor move,Nor Earth, nor Hell; where am I but in Love?

Where am I? not in Heaven: for oh I feele

The stone ofSisiphus,Ixionswheele;

And all those tortures, Poets (by their wine

Made judges) laid onTantalus, are mine.

Not yet am I in hell; for still I stand,

Though giddy in my passion, on firme land,

And still behold the seasons of the yeare,

Springs in my hope, and Winters in my feare.

And sure I'me 'bove the earth: For th' highest star

Shoots beames, but dim to whatCastara'sare,

And in her sight and favour I even shine

In a bright orbe beyond the Christalline.

If thenCastaraI in Heaven nor move,

Nor Earth, nor Hell; where am I but in Love?

To my honoured Friend, Mr. E. P.Not still ith' shine of Kings. Thou dost retireSometime to th' Holy shade, where the chaste quireOf Muses doth the stubborne Panther awe,And give the wildernesse of his nature law.The wind his chariot stops: Th' attentive rockeThe rigor doth of its creation mocke,And gently melts away:Argusto heareThe musicke, turnes each eye into an eare.To welcome thee,Endymion, glorious theyTriumph to force these creatures disobeyWhat nature hath enacted. But no charmeThe Muses have these monsters can disarmeOf their innated rage: No spell can tameThe North-winds fury, butCastara'sname.Climbe yonder forked hill, and see if thereIth' barke of every Daphne, not appeareCastarawritten; And so markt by me,How great a Prophet growes each Virgin tree?Lie downe, and listen what the sacred springIn her harmonious murmures, strives to singTo th' neighb'ring banke, ere her loose waters erreThrough common channels; sings she not of her?Behold yond' violet, which such honour gaines,That growing but to emulate her veines,It's azur'd like the skie: when she doth bowT' invokeCastara, heav'n perfumes her vow.The trees the water, and the flowers adoreThe Deity of her sex, and through each poreBreath forth her glories. But unquiet love[5]To make thy passions so uncourtly prove,As if all eares should heare her praise alone.Now listen thou;Endymionsings his owne.[5]To make affection so ill-nurtur'd prove. 1634, 1635.

Not still ith' shine of Kings. Thou dost retireSometime to th' Holy shade, where the chaste quireOf Muses doth the stubborne Panther awe,And give the wildernesse of his nature law.The wind his chariot stops: Th' attentive rockeThe rigor doth of its creation mocke,And gently melts away:Argusto heareThe musicke, turnes each eye into an eare.To welcome thee,Endymion, glorious theyTriumph to force these creatures disobeyWhat nature hath enacted. But no charmeThe Muses have these monsters can disarmeOf their innated rage: No spell can tameThe North-winds fury, butCastara'sname.Climbe yonder forked hill, and see if thereIth' barke of every Daphne, not appeareCastarawritten; And so markt by me,How great a Prophet growes each Virgin tree?Lie downe, and listen what the sacred springIn her harmonious murmures, strives to singTo th' neighb'ring banke, ere her loose waters erreThrough common channels; sings she not of her?Behold yond' violet, which such honour gaines,That growing but to emulate her veines,It's azur'd like the skie: when she doth bowT' invokeCastara, heav'n perfumes her vow.The trees the water, and the flowers adoreThe Deity of her sex, and through each poreBreath forth her glories. But unquiet love[5]To make thy passions so uncourtly prove,As if all eares should heare her praise alone.Now listen thou;Endymionsings his owne.

Not still ith' shine of Kings. Thou dost retire

Sometime to th' Holy shade, where the chaste quire

Of Muses doth the stubborne Panther awe,

And give the wildernesse of his nature law.

The wind his chariot stops: Th' attentive rocke

The rigor doth of its creation mocke,

And gently melts away:Argusto heare

The musicke, turnes each eye into an eare.

To welcome thee,Endymion, glorious they

Triumph to force these creatures disobey

What nature hath enacted. But no charme

The Muses have these monsters can disarme

Of their innated rage: No spell can tame

The North-winds fury, butCastara'sname.

Climbe yonder forked hill, and see if there

Ith' barke of every Daphne, not appeare

Castarawritten; And so markt by me,

How great a Prophet growes each Virgin tree?

Lie downe, and listen what the sacred spring

In her harmonious murmures, strives to sing

To th' neighb'ring banke, ere her loose waters erre

Through common channels; sings she not of her?

Behold yond' violet, which such honour gaines,

That growing but to emulate her veines,

It's azur'd like the skie: when she doth bow

T' invokeCastara, heav'n perfumes her vow.

The trees the water, and the flowers adore

The Deity of her sex, and through each pore

Breath forth her glories. But unquiet love

[5]To make thy passions so uncourtly prove,

As if all eares should heare her praise alone.

Now listen thou;Endymionsings his owne.

[5]To make affection so ill-nurtur'd prove. 1634, 1635.

ToCastara.Doe not their prophane Orgies heare,Who but to wealth no altars reare,The soule's oft poys'ned through the eare.Castararather seeke to dwellIth' silence of a private cell.Rich discontent's a glorious hell.YetHindlipdoth not want extentOf roome (though not magnificent)To give free welcome to content.There shalt thou see the earely Spring,That wealthy stocke of nature bring,Of which the Sybils bookes did sing.From fruitlesse Palmes shall honey flow,And barren Winter Harvest show,While Lilies in his bosome grow,No North-winde shall the corne infest,But the soft spirit of the East,Our sent with perfum'd banquets feast.A Satyre here and there shall trip,In hope to purchase leave to sipSweete Nectar from a Fairies lip.The Nimphs with quivers shall adorneTheir active sides, and rouse the morneWith the shrill musicke of their horne.Wakened with which, and viewing thee,FaireDaphneher faire selfe shall free,From the chaste prison of a tree:And withNarcissus(to thy faceWho humbly will ascribe all grace)Shall once againe pursue the chase.So they, whose wisdome did discusseOf these as fictions: shall in usFinde, they were more then fabulous.

Doe not their prophane Orgies heare,Who but to wealth no altars reare,The soule's oft poys'ned through the eare.

Doe not their prophane Orgies heare,

Who but to wealth no altars reare,

The soule's oft poys'ned through the eare.

Castararather seeke to dwellIth' silence of a private cell.Rich discontent's a glorious hell.

Castararather seeke to dwell

Ith' silence of a private cell.

Rich discontent's a glorious hell.

YetHindlipdoth not want extentOf roome (though not magnificent)To give free welcome to content.

YetHindlipdoth not want extent

Of roome (though not magnificent)

To give free welcome to content.

There shalt thou see the earely Spring,That wealthy stocke of nature bring,Of which the Sybils bookes did sing.

There shalt thou see the earely Spring,

That wealthy stocke of nature bring,

Of which the Sybils bookes did sing.

From fruitlesse Palmes shall honey flow,And barren Winter Harvest show,While Lilies in his bosome grow,

From fruitlesse Palmes shall honey flow,

And barren Winter Harvest show,

While Lilies in his bosome grow,

No North-winde shall the corne infest,But the soft spirit of the East,Our sent with perfum'd banquets feast.

No North-winde shall the corne infest,

But the soft spirit of the East,

Our sent with perfum'd banquets feast.

A Satyre here and there shall trip,In hope to purchase leave to sipSweete Nectar from a Fairies lip.

A Satyre here and there shall trip,

In hope to purchase leave to sip

Sweete Nectar from a Fairies lip.

The Nimphs with quivers shall adorneTheir active sides, and rouse the morneWith the shrill musicke of their horne.

The Nimphs with quivers shall adorne

Their active sides, and rouse the morne

With the shrill musicke of their horne.

Wakened with which, and viewing thee,FaireDaphneher faire selfe shall free,From the chaste prison of a tree:

Wakened with which, and viewing thee,

FaireDaphneher faire selfe shall free,

From the chaste prison of a tree:

And withNarcissus(to thy faceWho humbly will ascribe all grace)Shall once againe pursue the chase.

And withNarcissus(to thy face

Who humbly will ascribe all grace)

Shall once againe pursue the chase.

So they, whose wisdome did discusseOf these as fictions: shall in usFinde, they were more then fabulous.

So they, whose wisdome did discusse

Of these as fictions: shall in us

Finde, they were more then fabulous.

ToCastara,Softly singing to her selfe.Sing forth sweete Cherubin (for we have choiceOf reasons in thy beauty and the voyce,To name thee so, and scarce appeare prophane)Sing forth, that while the orbs celestiall straineTo eccho thy sweete note, our humane earesMay then receive the Musicke of the Spheares.But yet take heede, lest if the Swans of Thames,That adde harmonious pleasure to the streames,Oth' sudden heare thy well-divided breath,Should listen, and in silence welcome death:And ravisht Nightingales, striving too highTo reach thee, in the emulation dye.And thus there will be left no bird to singFarewell to th' Waters, welcome to the Spring.

Sing forth sweete Cherubin (for we have choiceOf reasons in thy beauty and the voyce,To name thee so, and scarce appeare prophane)Sing forth, that while the orbs celestiall straineTo eccho thy sweete note, our humane earesMay then receive the Musicke of the Spheares.But yet take heede, lest if the Swans of Thames,That adde harmonious pleasure to the streames,Oth' sudden heare thy well-divided breath,Should listen, and in silence welcome death:And ravisht Nightingales, striving too highTo reach thee, in the emulation dye.And thus there will be left no bird to singFarewell to th' Waters, welcome to the Spring.

Sing forth sweete Cherubin (for we have choice

Of reasons in thy beauty and the voyce,

To name thee so, and scarce appeare prophane)

Sing forth, that while the orbs celestiall straine

To eccho thy sweete note, our humane eares

May then receive the Musicke of the Spheares.

But yet take heede, lest if the Swans of Thames,

That adde harmonious pleasure to the streames,

Oth' sudden heare thy well-divided breath,

Should listen, and in silence welcome death:

And ravisht Nightingales, striving too high

To reach thee, in the emulation dye.

And thus there will be left no bird to sing

Farewell to th' Waters, welcome to the Spring.

To a Wanton.In vaine faire sorceresse, thy eyes speake charmes,In vaine thou mak'st loose circles with thy armes.I'me 'bove thy spels. No magicke him can move,In whomCastarahath inspir'd her love.As she, keepe thou strict cent'nell o're thy eare,Lest it the whispers of soft Courtiers heare;Reade not his raptures, whose invention mustWrite journey worke, both for his Patrons lust,And his owne plush: let no admirer feastHis eye oth' naked banquet of thy brest.If this faire president, nor yet my wantOf love, to answer thine, make thee recantThy sorc'ries; Pity shall to justice turne,And judge thee, witch, in thy owne flames to burne.

In vaine faire sorceresse, thy eyes speake charmes,In vaine thou mak'st loose circles with thy armes.I'me 'bove thy spels. No magicke him can move,In whomCastarahath inspir'd her love.As she, keepe thou strict cent'nell o're thy eare,Lest it the whispers of soft Courtiers heare;Reade not his raptures, whose invention mustWrite journey worke, both for his Patrons lust,And his owne plush: let no admirer feastHis eye oth' naked banquet of thy brest.If this faire president, nor yet my wantOf love, to answer thine, make thee recantThy sorc'ries; Pity shall to justice turne,And judge thee, witch, in thy owne flames to burne.

In vaine faire sorceresse, thy eyes speake charmes,

In vaine thou mak'st loose circles with thy armes.

I'me 'bove thy spels. No magicke him can move,

In whomCastarahath inspir'd her love.

As she, keepe thou strict cent'nell o're thy eare,

Lest it the whispers of soft Courtiers heare;

Reade not his raptures, whose invention must

Write journey worke, both for his Patrons lust,

And his owne plush: let no admirer feast

His eye oth' naked banquet of thy brest.

If this faire president, nor yet my want

Of love, to answer thine, make thee recant

Thy sorc'ries; Pity shall to justice turne,

And judge thee, witch, in thy owne flames to burne.

To the Honourable my much honoured friend, R. B.Esquire.While you dare trust the loudest tongue of fame,The zeale you heare your Mistresse to proclaimTo th' talking world: I in the silent'st grove,Scarce to my selfe dare whisper that I love.Thee, titlesBrud'nell, riches thee adorne,And vigorous youth to vice not headlong borneBy th' tide of custome: Which I value moreThen what blind superstitious fooles adore,Who greatnesse in the chaire of blisse enthrone.Greatnesse we borrow, Vertue is our owne.In thy attempt be prosperous, and when ereThou shalt prefix the houre; mayHymenweareHis brightest robe; where some fam'd Persian shallWorke by the wonder of her needle allThe nuptiall joyes; which (if we Poets beTrue Prophets) bounteous heaven designes for thee.I envie not, but glory in thy fate,While in the narrow limits of my stateI bound my hopes. Which ifCastaradaigneOnce to entitle hers; the wealthiest graineMy earth, untild shall beare; my trees shall groneUnder their fruitfull burthen, and at oneAnd the same season, Nature forth shall bringRiches of Autumne, pleasures of the Spring.But digge, and thou shalt finde a purer MineThenth' Indians boast: Taste of this generous Vine,And her blood sweeter will than Nectar prove.Such miracles wait on a noble love.But should she scorne my suite, I'le tread that pathWhich none but some sad Fairy beaten hath.There force wrong'dPhilomel, hearing my mone,To sigh my greater griefes, forget her owne.

While you dare trust the loudest tongue of fame,The zeale you heare your Mistresse to proclaimTo th' talking world: I in the silent'st grove,Scarce to my selfe dare whisper that I love.Thee, titlesBrud'nell, riches thee adorne,And vigorous youth to vice not headlong borneBy th' tide of custome: Which I value moreThen what blind superstitious fooles adore,Who greatnesse in the chaire of blisse enthrone.Greatnesse we borrow, Vertue is our owne.In thy attempt be prosperous, and when ereThou shalt prefix the houre; mayHymenweareHis brightest robe; where some fam'd Persian shallWorke by the wonder of her needle allThe nuptiall joyes; which (if we Poets beTrue Prophets) bounteous heaven designes for thee.I envie not, but glory in thy fate,While in the narrow limits of my stateI bound my hopes. Which ifCastaradaigneOnce to entitle hers; the wealthiest graineMy earth, untild shall beare; my trees shall groneUnder their fruitfull burthen, and at oneAnd the same season, Nature forth shall bringRiches of Autumne, pleasures of the Spring.But digge, and thou shalt finde a purer MineThenth' Indians boast: Taste of this generous Vine,And her blood sweeter will than Nectar prove.Such miracles wait on a noble love.But should she scorne my suite, I'le tread that pathWhich none but some sad Fairy beaten hath.There force wrong'dPhilomel, hearing my mone,To sigh my greater griefes, forget her owne.

While you dare trust the loudest tongue of fame,

The zeale you heare your Mistresse to proclaim

To th' talking world: I in the silent'st grove,

Scarce to my selfe dare whisper that I love.

Thee, titlesBrud'nell, riches thee adorne,

And vigorous youth to vice not headlong borne

By th' tide of custome: Which I value more

Then what blind superstitious fooles adore,

Who greatnesse in the chaire of blisse enthrone.

Greatnesse we borrow, Vertue is our owne.

In thy attempt be prosperous, and when ere

Thou shalt prefix the houre; mayHymenweare

His brightest robe; where some fam'd Persian shall

Worke by the wonder of her needle all

The nuptiall joyes; which (if we Poets be

True Prophets) bounteous heaven designes for thee.

I envie not, but glory in thy fate,

While in the narrow limits of my state

I bound my hopes. Which ifCastaradaigne

Once to entitle hers; the wealthiest graine

My earth, untild shall beare; my trees shall grone

Under their fruitfull burthen, and at one

And the same season, Nature forth shall bring

Riches of Autumne, pleasures of the Spring.

But digge, and thou shalt finde a purer Mine

Thenth' Indians boast: Taste of this generous Vine,

And her blood sweeter will than Nectar prove.

Such miracles wait on a noble love.

But should she scorne my suite, I'le tread that path

Which none but some sad Fairy beaten hath.

There force wrong'dPhilomel, hearing my mone,

To sigh my greater griefes, forget her owne.

ToCastara,Inquiring why I loved her.Why doth the stubborne iron proveSo gentle to th' magnetique stone?How know you that the orbs doe move;With musicke too? since heard of none?And I will answer why I love.'Tis not thy vertues, each a starreWhich in thy soules bright spheare doe shine,Shooting their beauties from a farre,To make each gazers heart like thine:Our vertues often Meteors are.'Tis not thy face, I cannot spieWhenPoetsweepe some Virgins death,ThatCupidwantons in her eye,Or perfumes vapour from her breath,And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie.[6]Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne'reSo vaine as in that to delight:Which ballance it, no weight doth beare,Nor yet is object to the sight,But onely fils the vulgar eare.Nor yet thy fortunes: Since I knowThey in their motion like the Sea:Ebbe from the good, to the impious flow:And so in flattery betray,That, raising they but overthrow.And yet these attributes might proveFuell enough t' enflame desire;But there was something from above,Shot without reasons guide, this fire.I know, yet know not, why I love.[6]And there must once thy beauty lie. 1634, 1635.

Why doth the stubborne iron proveSo gentle to th' magnetique stone?How know you that the orbs doe move;With musicke too? since heard of none?And I will answer why I love.

Why doth the stubborne iron prove

So gentle to th' magnetique stone?

How know you that the orbs doe move;

With musicke too? since heard of none?

And I will answer why I love.

'Tis not thy vertues, each a starreWhich in thy soules bright spheare doe shine,Shooting their beauties from a farre,To make each gazers heart like thine:Our vertues often Meteors are.

'Tis not thy vertues, each a starre

Which in thy soules bright spheare doe shine,

Shooting their beauties from a farre,

To make each gazers heart like thine:

Our vertues often Meteors are.

'Tis not thy face, I cannot spieWhenPoetsweepe some Virgins death,ThatCupidwantons in her eye,Or perfumes vapour from her breath,And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie.[6]

'Tis not thy face, I cannot spie

WhenPoetsweepe some Virgins death,

ThatCupidwantons in her eye,

Or perfumes vapour from her breath,

And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie.[6]

Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne'reSo vaine as in that to delight:Which ballance it, no weight doth beare,Nor yet is object to the sight,But onely fils the vulgar eare.

Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne're

So vaine as in that to delight:

Which ballance it, no weight doth beare,

Nor yet is object to the sight,

But onely fils the vulgar eare.

Nor yet thy fortunes: Since I knowThey in their motion like the Sea:Ebbe from the good, to the impious flow:And so in flattery betray,That, raising they but overthrow.

Nor yet thy fortunes: Since I know

They in their motion like the Sea:

Ebbe from the good, to the impious flow:

And so in flattery betray,

That, raising they but overthrow.

And yet these attributes might proveFuell enough t' enflame desire;But there was something from above,Shot without reasons guide, this fire.I know, yet know not, why I love.

And yet these attributes might prove

Fuell enough t' enflame desire;

But there was something from above,

Shot without reasons guide, this fire.

I know, yet know not, why I love.

[6]And there must once thy beauty lie. 1634, 1635.

ToCastara,Looking upon him.Transfix me with that flaming dartIth' eye, or brest, or any part,So thou,Castara, spare my heart.The cold Cymerian by that brightWarme wound, ith' darknesse of his night,Might both recover heat, and light.The rugged Scythian gently move,Ith' whispering shadow of some grove,That's consecrate to sportive Love.Decembersee the Primrose grow,The Rivers in soft murmurs flow,And from his head shake off his snow.And crooked age might feele againeThose heates, of which youth did complaine,While fresh blood swels each withered veyne.For the bright lustre of thy eyes,Which but to warme them would suffice,May burne me to a sacrifice.

Transfix me with that flaming dartIth' eye, or brest, or any part,So thou,Castara, spare my heart.

Transfix me with that flaming dart

Ith' eye, or brest, or any part,

So thou,Castara, spare my heart.

The cold Cymerian by that brightWarme wound, ith' darknesse of his night,Might both recover heat, and light.

The cold Cymerian by that bright

Warme wound, ith' darknesse of his night,

Might both recover heat, and light.

The rugged Scythian gently move,Ith' whispering shadow of some grove,That's consecrate to sportive Love.

The rugged Scythian gently move,

Ith' whispering shadow of some grove,

That's consecrate to sportive Love.

Decembersee the Primrose grow,The Rivers in soft murmurs flow,And from his head shake off his snow.

Decembersee the Primrose grow,

The Rivers in soft murmurs flow,

And from his head shake off his snow.

And crooked age might feele againeThose heates, of which youth did complaine,While fresh blood swels each withered veyne.

And crooked age might feele againe

Those heates, of which youth did complaine,

While fresh blood swels each withered veyne.

For the bright lustre of thy eyes,Which but to warme them would suffice,May burne me to a sacrifice.

For the bright lustre of thy eyes,

Which but to warme them would suffice,

May burne me to a sacrifice.

[7]To the right honourable the Countesse ofAr.Wing'd with delight (yet such as still doth beareChaste vertues stamp) those Children of the yeereThe dayes, haste nimbly; and while as they flie,Each of them with their predecessors vie,Which yeelds most pleasure; you to them dispence,What Time lost with his cradle, innocence.So I (if fancie not delude my sight,)See often the pale monarch of the night,Diana, 'mong her nimphs. For every quireOf vulgar starres, who lend their weaker fireTo conquer the nights chilnesse, with their Queene,In harmelesse revels tread the happy greene.But I who am proscrib'd by tyrant love,Seeke out a silent exile in some grove,Where nought except a solitary Spring,Was ever heard, to which the Nimphs did singNarcissusobsequies: For onely thereIs musique apt to catch an am'rous eare.Castara!oh my heart! How great a flameDid even shoot into me with her name?Castarahath betray'd me to a zealeWhich thus distracts my hopes. Flints may concealeIn their cold veynes a fire. But I whose heartBy Love's dissolv'd, ne're practis'd that cold art.But truce thou warring passion, for I'le nowMadam to you addresse this solemne vow.By Vertue and your selfe (best friends) I findeIn the interiour province of your mindeSuch government: That if great men obeyTh' example of your order, they will swayWithout reproofe. For onely you uniteHonour with sweetenesse, vertue with delight.[7]To the right honourable my very good Lady, AnneCountesse ofAr. 1634, 1635.

Wing'd with delight (yet such as still doth beareChaste vertues stamp) those Children of the yeereThe dayes, haste nimbly; and while as they flie,Each of them with their predecessors vie,Which yeelds most pleasure; you to them dispence,What Time lost with his cradle, innocence.So I (if fancie not delude my sight,)See often the pale monarch of the night,Diana, 'mong her nimphs. For every quireOf vulgar starres, who lend their weaker fireTo conquer the nights chilnesse, with their Queene,In harmelesse revels tread the happy greene.But I who am proscrib'd by tyrant love,Seeke out a silent exile in some grove,Where nought except a solitary Spring,Was ever heard, to which the Nimphs did singNarcissusobsequies: For onely thereIs musique apt to catch an am'rous eare.Castara!oh my heart! How great a flameDid even shoot into me with her name?Castarahath betray'd me to a zealeWhich thus distracts my hopes. Flints may concealeIn their cold veynes a fire. But I whose heartBy Love's dissolv'd, ne're practis'd that cold art.But truce thou warring passion, for I'le nowMadam to you addresse this solemne vow.By Vertue and your selfe (best friends) I findeIn the interiour province of your mindeSuch government: That if great men obeyTh' example of your order, they will swayWithout reproofe. For onely you uniteHonour with sweetenesse, vertue with delight.

Wing'd with delight (yet such as still doth beare

Chaste vertues stamp) those Children of the yeere

The dayes, haste nimbly; and while as they flie,

Each of them with their predecessors vie,

Which yeelds most pleasure; you to them dispence,

What Time lost with his cradle, innocence.

So I (if fancie not delude my sight,)

See often the pale monarch of the night,

Diana, 'mong her nimphs. For every quire

Of vulgar starres, who lend their weaker fire

To conquer the nights chilnesse, with their Queene,

In harmelesse revels tread the happy greene.

But I who am proscrib'd by tyrant love,

Seeke out a silent exile in some grove,

Where nought except a solitary Spring,

Was ever heard, to which the Nimphs did sing

Narcissusobsequies: For onely there

Is musique apt to catch an am'rous eare.

Castara!oh my heart! How great a flame

Did even shoot into me with her name?

Castarahath betray'd me to a zeale

Which thus distracts my hopes. Flints may conceale

In their cold veynes a fire. But I whose heart

By Love's dissolv'd, ne're practis'd that cold art.

But truce thou warring passion, for I'le now

Madam to you addresse this solemne vow.

By Vertue and your selfe (best friends) I finde

In the interiour province of your minde

Such government: That if great men obey

Th' example of your order, they will sway

Without reproofe. For onely you unite

Honour with sweetenesse, vertue with delight.

[7]To the right honourable my very good Lady, AnneCountesse ofAr. 1634, 1635.

UponCastara'sfrowne or smile.Learned shade ofTycho Brache, who to us,The stars propheticke language didst impart,And even in life their mysteries discusse:Castarahath o'rethrowne thy strongest art.When custome struggles from her beaten path,Then accidents must needs uncertaine be.For ifCastarasmile; though winter hathLock't up the rivers: Summer's warme in me.AndFloraby the miracle reviv'd,Doth even at her owne beauty wondring stand.But should she frowne, the Northerne wind arriv'd,In midst of Summer, leads his frozen band:Which doth to yce my youthfull blood congeale,Yet in the midst of yce, still flames my zeale.

Learned shade ofTycho Brache, who to us,The stars propheticke language didst impart,And even in life their mysteries discusse:Castarahath o'rethrowne thy strongest art.

Learned shade ofTycho Brache, who to us,

The stars propheticke language didst impart,

And even in life their mysteries discusse:

Castarahath o'rethrowne thy strongest art.

When custome struggles from her beaten path,Then accidents must needs uncertaine be.For ifCastarasmile; though winter hathLock't up the rivers: Summer's warme in me.

When custome struggles from her beaten path,

Then accidents must needs uncertaine be.

For ifCastarasmile; though winter hath

Lock't up the rivers: Summer's warme in me.

AndFloraby the miracle reviv'd,Doth even at her owne beauty wondring stand.But should she frowne, the Northerne wind arriv'd,In midst of Summer, leads his frozen band:Which doth to yce my youthfull blood congeale,Yet in the midst of yce, still flames my zeale.

AndFloraby the miracle reviv'd,

Doth even at her owne beauty wondring stand.

But should she frowne, the Northerne wind arriv'd,

In midst of Summer, leads his frozen band:

Which doth to yce my youthfull blood congeale,

Yet in the midst of yce, still flames my zeale.

ToCastara,All fortunes.Ye glorious wits, who finde then Parian stone,A nobler quarry to build trophies on,Purchast 'gainst conquer'd time; Go court loud fame,He wins it, who but singsCastara'sname?Aspiring soules, who grow but in a Spring,Forc't by the warmth of some indulgent King:Know ifCastarasmile: I dwell in it,And vie for glory with the Favorit.Ye sonnes of avarice, who but to shareUncertaine treasure with a certaine care.Tempt death in th' horrid Ocean: I, when ereI but approach her, find the Indies there.Heaven brightest Saint, kinde to my vowes made theeOf all ambition courts, th' Epitome.

Ye glorious wits, who finde then Parian stone,A nobler quarry to build trophies on,Purchast 'gainst conquer'd time; Go court loud fame,He wins it, who but singsCastara'sname?Aspiring soules, who grow but in a Spring,Forc't by the warmth of some indulgent King:Know ifCastarasmile: I dwell in it,And vie for glory with the Favorit.Ye sonnes of avarice, who but to shareUncertaine treasure with a certaine care.Tempt death in th' horrid Ocean: I, when ereI but approach her, find the Indies there.Heaven brightest Saint, kinde to my vowes made theeOf all ambition courts, th' Epitome.

Ye glorious wits, who finde then Parian stone,

A nobler quarry to build trophies on,

Purchast 'gainst conquer'd time; Go court loud fame,

He wins it, who but singsCastara'sname?

Aspiring soules, who grow but in a Spring,

Forc't by the warmth of some indulgent King:

Know ifCastarasmile: I dwell in it,

And vie for glory with the Favorit.

Ye sonnes of avarice, who but to share

Uncertaine treasure with a certaine care.

Tempt death in th' horrid Ocean: I, when ere

I but approach her, find the Indies there.

Heaven brightest Saint, kinde to my vowes made thee

Of all ambition courts, th' Epitome.

Upon thoughtCastaramay dye.If she should dye, (as well suspect we may,A body so compact should ne're decay)Her brighter soule would in the Moone inspireMore chastity, in dimmer starres more fire.You twins ofLæda(as your parents areIn their wild lusts) may grow irregularNow in your motion: for the marrinerHenceforth shall onely steere his course by her.And when the zeale of after time[8]shall spieHer uncorrupt ith' happy marble lie;The roses in her cheekes unwithered,'Twill turne to love, and dote upon the dead.For he who did to her in life dispenceA heaven, will banish all corruption thence.[8]times. 1634.

If she should dye, (as well suspect we may,A body so compact should ne're decay)Her brighter soule would in the Moone inspireMore chastity, in dimmer starres more fire.You twins ofLæda(as your parents areIn their wild lusts) may grow irregularNow in your motion: for the marrinerHenceforth shall onely steere his course by her.And when the zeale of after time[8]shall spieHer uncorrupt ith' happy marble lie;The roses in her cheekes unwithered,'Twill turne to love, and dote upon the dead.For he who did to her in life dispenceA heaven, will banish all corruption thence.

If she should dye, (as well suspect we may,

A body so compact should ne're decay)

Her brighter soule would in the Moone inspire

More chastity, in dimmer starres more fire.

You twins ofLæda(as your parents are

In their wild lusts) may grow irregular

Now in your motion: for the marriner

Henceforth shall onely steere his course by her.

And when the zeale of after time[8]shall spie

Her uncorrupt ith' happy marble lie;

The roses in her cheekes unwithered,

'Twill turne to love, and dote upon the dead.

For he who did to her in life dispence

A heaven, will banish all corruption thence.

[8]times. 1634.

Time to the moments, on sight ofCastara.You younger children of your father stay,Swift flying moments (which divide the dayAnd with your number measure out the yeareIn various seasons) stay and wonder here.For since my cradle, I so bright a graceNe're saw, as you see inCastara'sface;Whom nature to revenge some youthfull crimeWould never frame, till age had weakened Time.Else spight of fate, in some faire forme of clayMy youth I'de bodied, throwne my sythe away,And broke my glasse. But since that cannot be,I'le punish Nature for her injurie.On nimble moments in your journey flie,Castarashall like me, grow old, and die.

You younger children of your father stay,Swift flying moments (which divide the dayAnd with your number measure out the yeareIn various seasons) stay and wonder here.For since my cradle, I so bright a graceNe're saw, as you see inCastara'sface;Whom nature to revenge some youthfull crimeWould never frame, till age had weakened Time.Else spight of fate, in some faire forme of clayMy youth I'de bodied, throwne my sythe away,And broke my glasse. But since that cannot be,I'le punish Nature for her injurie.On nimble moments in your journey flie,Castarashall like me, grow old, and die.

You younger children of your father stay,

Swift flying moments (which divide the day

And with your number measure out the yeare

In various seasons) stay and wonder here.

For since my cradle, I so bright a grace

Ne're saw, as you see inCastara'sface;

Whom nature to revenge some youthfull crime

Would never frame, till age had weakened Time.

Else spight of fate, in some faire forme of clay

My youth I'de bodied, throwne my sythe away,

And broke my glasse. But since that cannot be,

I'le punish Nature for her injurie.

On nimble moments in your journey flie,

Castarashall like me, grow old, and die.

To a friend inquiring her name, whom he loved.Fond Love himselfe hopes to disguiseFrom view, if he but covered lies,Ith' veile of my transparent eyes.Though in a smile himselfe he hide,Or in a sigh, thou art so trideIn all his arts, hee'le be discride.I must confesse (Deare friend) my flame,Whose boastsCastaraso doth tame,That not thy faith, shall know her name.Twere prophanation of my zeale,If but abroad one whisper steale,They love betray, who him reveale.In a darke cave which never eyeCould by his subtlest ray descry,It doth like a rich minerall lye.Which is she with her flame refine,I'de force it from that obscure Mine,And then it like pure should shine.

Fond Love himselfe hopes to disguiseFrom view, if he but covered lies,Ith' veile of my transparent eyes.

Fond Love himselfe hopes to disguise

From view, if he but covered lies,

Ith' veile of my transparent eyes.

Though in a smile himselfe he hide,Or in a sigh, thou art so trideIn all his arts, hee'le be discride.

Though in a smile himselfe he hide,

Or in a sigh, thou art so tride

In all his arts, hee'le be discride.

I must confesse (Deare friend) my flame,Whose boastsCastaraso doth tame,That not thy faith, shall know her name.

I must confesse (Deare friend) my flame,

Whose boastsCastaraso doth tame,

That not thy faith, shall know her name.

Twere prophanation of my zeale,If but abroad one whisper steale,They love betray, who him reveale.

Twere prophanation of my zeale,

If but abroad one whisper steale,

They love betray, who him reveale.

In a darke cave which never eyeCould by his subtlest ray descry,It doth like a rich minerall lye.

In a darke cave which never eye

Could by his subtlest ray descry,

It doth like a rich minerall lye.

Which is she with her flame refine,I'de force it from that obscure Mine,And then it like pure should shine.

Which is she with her flame refine,

I'de force it from that obscure Mine,

And then it like pure should shine.

A Dialogue betweeneHopeandFeare.Feare.Checke thy forward thoughts, and knowHymenonely joynes their hands;Who with even paces goe,Shee in gold, he rich in lands.Hope.ButCastara'spurer fire,When it meetes a noble flame:Shuns the smoke of such desire,Joynes with love, and burnes the same.Feare.Yet obedience must prevaile,They who o're her actions sway:Would have her in th' Ocean saile,And contemne thy narrow sea.Hope.Parents lawes must beare no weightWhen they happinesse prevent.And our sea is not so streight,But it roome hath for content.Feare.Thousand hearts as victims stand,At the Altar of her eyes.And will partiall she command,Onely thine for sacrifice?Hope.Thousand victims must returne;Shee the purest will designe:ChooseCastarawhich shall burne,Choose the purest, that is, mine.

Checke thy forward thoughts, and know

Hymenonely joynes their hands;

Who with even paces goe,

Shee in gold, he rich in lands.

ButCastara'spurer fire,

When it meetes a noble flame:

Shuns the smoke of such desire,

Joynes with love, and burnes the same.

Yet obedience must prevaile,

They who o're her actions sway:

Would have her in th' Ocean saile,

And contemne thy narrow sea.

Parents lawes must beare no weight

When they happinesse prevent.

And our sea is not so streight,

But it roome hath for content.

Thousand hearts as victims stand,

At the Altar of her eyes.

And will partiall she command,

Onely thine for sacrifice?

Thousand victims must returne;

Shee the purest will designe:

ChooseCastarawhich shall burne,

Choose the purest, that is, mine.

ToCupid,Upon a dimple inCastara'scheeke.Nimble boy in thy warme flight,What cold tyrant dimm'd thy sight?Hadst thou eyes to see my faire,Thou wouldst sigh thy selfe to ayre:Fearing to create this one,Nature had her selfe undone.But if you when this you heareFall downe murdered through your eare,Begge ofJovethat you may haveIn her cheeke a dimpled grave.Lilly, Rose, and Violet,Shall the perfum'd Hearse besetWhile a beauteous sheet of Lawne,O're the wanton corps is drawne:And all lovers use this breath;"Here liesCupidblest in death."

Nimble boy in thy warme flight,What cold tyrant dimm'd thy sight?Hadst thou eyes to see my faire,Thou wouldst sigh thy selfe to ayre:Fearing to create this one,Nature had her selfe undone.But if you when this you heareFall downe murdered through your eare,Begge ofJovethat you may haveIn her cheeke a dimpled grave.Lilly, Rose, and Violet,Shall the perfum'd Hearse besetWhile a beauteous sheet of Lawne,O're the wanton corps is drawne:And all lovers use this breath;"Here liesCupidblest in death."

Nimble boy in thy warme flight,

What cold tyrant dimm'd thy sight?

Hadst thou eyes to see my faire,

Thou wouldst sigh thy selfe to ayre:

Fearing to create this one,

Nature had her selfe undone.

But if you when this you heare

Fall downe murdered through your eare,

Begge ofJovethat you may have

In her cheeke a dimpled grave.

Lilly, Rose, and Violet,

Shall the perfum'd Hearse beset

While a beauteous sheet of Lawne,

O're the wanton corps is drawne:

And all lovers use this breath;

"Here liesCupidblest in death."

UponCupid'sdeath and buriall inCastara'scheeke.Cupidsdead. Who would not dye,To be interr'd so neere her eye?Who would feare the sword, to haveSuch an Alabaster grave?O're which two bright tapers burne,To give light to the beauteous Urne.At the firstCastarasmil'd,ThinkingCupidher beguil'd,Onely counterfeiting death.But when she perceiv'd his breathQuite expir'd: the mournefull Girle,To entombe the boy in Pearle,Wept so long; till pittiousJove,From the ashes of this Love,Made ten thousandCupidsrise,But confin'd them to her eyes:Where they yet, to shew they lackeNo due sorrow, still weare blacke.But the blacks so glorious areWhich they mourne in, that the faireQuires of starres, look pale and fret,Seeing themselves out shin'd by jet.

Cupidsdead. Who would not dye,To be interr'd so neere her eye?Who would feare the sword, to haveSuch an Alabaster grave?O're which two bright tapers burne,To give light to the beauteous Urne.At the firstCastarasmil'd,ThinkingCupidher beguil'd,Onely counterfeiting death.But when she perceiv'd his breathQuite expir'd: the mournefull Girle,To entombe the boy in Pearle,Wept so long; till pittiousJove,From the ashes of this Love,Made ten thousandCupidsrise,But confin'd them to her eyes:Where they yet, to shew they lackeNo due sorrow, still weare blacke.But the blacks so glorious areWhich they mourne in, that the faireQuires of starres, look pale and fret,Seeing themselves out shin'd by jet.

Cupidsdead. Who would not dye,

To be interr'd so neere her eye?

Who would feare the sword, to have

Such an Alabaster grave?

O're which two bright tapers burne,

To give light to the beauteous Urne.

At the firstCastarasmil'd,

ThinkingCupidher beguil'd,

Onely counterfeiting death.

But when she perceiv'd his breath

Quite expir'd: the mournefull Girle,

To entombe the boy in Pearle,

Wept so long; till pittiousJove,

From the ashes of this Love,

Made ten thousandCupidsrise,

But confin'd them to her eyes:

Where they yet, to shew they lacke

No due sorrow, still weare blacke.

But the blacks so glorious are

Which they mourne in, that the faire

Quires of starres, look pale and fret,

Seeing themselves out shin'd by jet.

ToFame.Fly on thy swiftest wing, ambitious Fame,And speake to the cold NorthCastara'sname:Which very breath will, like the East wind, bringThe temp'rate warmth, and musicke of the Spring.Then from the Articke to th' Antarticke Pole,Haste nimbly and inspire a gentler soule,By naming her, ith' torrid South; that heMay milde asZephiruscoole whispers be.Nor let the West where heaven already joynes,The vastest Empire, and the wealthiest Mines:Nor th' East in pleasures wanton, her condemne,For not distributing her gifts on them.For she with want would have her bounty meete.Loves noble charity is so discreete.

Fly on thy swiftest wing, ambitious Fame,And speake to the cold NorthCastara'sname:Which very breath will, like the East wind, bringThe temp'rate warmth, and musicke of the Spring.Then from the Articke to th' Antarticke Pole,Haste nimbly and inspire a gentler soule,By naming her, ith' torrid South; that heMay milde asZephiruscoole whispers be.Nor let the West where heaven already joynes,The vastest Empire, and the wealthiest Mines:Nor th' East in pleasures wanton, her condemne,For not distributing her gifts on them.For she with want would have her bounty meete.Loves noble charity is so discreete.

Fly on thy swiftest wing, ambitious Fame,

And speake to the cold NorthCastara'sname:

Which very breath will, like the East wind, bring

The temp'rate warmth, and musicke of the Spring.

Then from the Articke to th' Antarticke Pole,

Haste nimbly and inspire a gentler soule,

By naming her, ith' torrid South; that he

May milde asZephiruscoole whispers be.

Nor let the West where heaven already joynes,

The vastest Empire, and the wealthiest Mines:

Nor th' East in pleasures wanton, her condemne,

For not distributing her gifts on them.

For she with want would have her bounty meete.

Loves noble charity is so discreete.

A Dialogue betweeneAraphillandCastara.Araph.Dost not thouCastarareadAm'rous volumes in my eyes?Doth not every motion pleadWhat I'de shew, and yet disguise?Sences act each others part.Eyes, as tongues, reveale the heart.Cast.I saw love, as lightning breakeFrom thy eyes, and was contentOft to heare thy silence speake.Silent love is eloquent.So the sence of learning heares,The dumbe musicke of the Spheares.Araph.Then there's mercy in your kinde,Listning to an unfain'd love,Or strives he to tame the wind,Who would your compassion move?No y'are pittious, as y're faire.Heaven relents, o'recome by prayer.Cast.But loose man too prodigallIs in the expence of vowes;And thinks to him kingdomes fallWhen the heart of woman bowes:Frailty to your armes may yeeld;Who resists you, wins the field.Araph.Triumph not to see me bleede,Let the Bore chased[9]from his den,On the wounds of mankinde feede.Your soft sexe should pitty men.Malice well may practise Art,Love hath a transparent heart.Cast.Yet is love all one deceit,A warme frost, a frozen fire.She within her selfe is great,Who is slave to no desire.Let youth act, and age advise,And then love may finde his eyes.Araph.Hymenstorch yeelds a dim light,When ambition joynes our hands.A proud day, but mournefull night,She sustaines, who marries lands.Wealth slaves man, but for their Ore,Th' Indians had beene free, though poore.Cast.And yet wealth the fuell isWhich maintaines the nuptiall fire,And in honour there's a blisse.Th' are immortall who aspire.But truth sayes, no joyes are sweete,But where hearts united meete.Araph.Roses breath not such a sent,To perfume the neighbr'ing groves;As when you affirme content,In no spheare of glory moves.Glory narrow soules combines:Noble hearts Love onely joynes.[9]chased. 1634, 1635.

Dost not thouCastararead

Am'rous volumes in my eyes?

Doth not every motion plead

What I'de shew, and yet disguise?

Sences act each others part.

Eyes, as tongues, reveale the heart.

I saw love, as lightning breake

From thy eyes, and was content

Oft to heare thy silence speake.

Silent love is eloquent.

So the sence of learning heares,

The dumbe musicke of the Spheares.

Then there's mercy in your kinde,

Listning to an unfain'd love,

Or strives he to tame the wind,

Who would your compassion move?

No y'are pittious, as y're faire.

Heaven relents, o'recome by prayer.

But loose man too prodigall

Is in the expence of vowes;

And thinks to him kingdomes fall

When the heart of woman bowes:

Frailty to your armes may yeeld;

Who resists you, wins the field.

Triumph not to see me bleede,

Let the Bore chased[9]from his den,

On the wounds of mankinde feede.

Your soft sexe should pitty men.

Malice well may practise Art,

Love hath a transparent heart.

Yet is love all one deceit,

A warme frost, a frozen fire.

She within her selfe is great,

Who is slave to no desire.

Let youth act, and age advise,

And then love may finde his eyes.

Hymenstorch yeelds a dim light,

When ambition joynes our hands.

A proud day, but mournefull night,

She sustaines, who marries lands.

Wealth slaves man, but for their Ore,

Th' Indians had beene free, though poore.

And yet wealth the fuell is

Which maintaines the nuptiall fire,

And in honour there's a blisse.

Th' are immortall who aspire.

But truth sayes, no joyes are sweete,

But where hearts united meete.

Roses breath not such a sent,

To perfume the neighbr'ing groves;

As when you affirme content,

In no spheare of glory moves.

Glory narrow soules combines:

Noble hearts Love onely joynes.

[9]chased. 1634, 1635.

ToCastara,Intending a journey into the Countrey.Why haste you henceCastara? can the earth,A glorious mother, in her flowry birth,Shew Lillies like thy brow? Can she discloseIn emulation of thy cheeke, a Rose,Sweete as thy blush? Upon thy selfe then setJust value, and scorne it, thy counterfet.The Spring's still with thee; But perhaps the field,Not warm'd with thy approach, wants force to yeeld,Her tribute to the Plough; O rather letTh' ingratefull earth for ever be in debtTo th' hope of sweating industry, than weShould starve with cold, who have no heat but thee.Nor feare the publike good. Thy eyes can giveA life to all, who can deserve to live.

Why haste you henceCastara? can the earth,A glorious mother, in her flowry birth,Shew Lillies like thy brow? Can she discloseIn emulation of thy cheeke, a Rose,Sweete as thy blush? Upon thy selfe then setJust value, and scorne it, thy counterfet.The Spring's still with thee; But perhaps the field,Not warm'd with thy approach, wants force to yeeld,Her tribute to the Plough; O rather letTh' ingratefull earth for ever be in debtTo th' hope of sweating industry, than weShould starve with cold, who have no heat but thee.Nor feare the publike good. Thy eyes can giveA life to all, who can deserve to live.

Why haste you henceCastara? can the earth,

A glorious mother, in her flowry birth,

Shew Lillies like thy brow? Can she disclose

In emulation of thy cheeke, a Rose,

Sweete as thy blush? Upon thy selfe then set

Just value, and scorne it, thy counterfet.

The Spring's still with thee; But perhaps the field,

Not warm'd with thy approach, wants force to yeeld,

Her tribute to the Plough; O rather let

Th' ingratefull earth for ever be in debt

To th' hope of sweating industry, than we

Should starve with cold, who have no heat but thee.

Nor feare the publike good. Thy eyes can give

A life to all, who can deserve to live.

UponCastara'sdeparture.I am engag'd to sorrow, and my heartFeeles a distracted rage. Though you departAnd leave me to my feares; let love in spiteOf absence, our divided soules unite.But you must goe. The melancholy DovesDrawVenuschariot hence. The sportive LovesWhich wont to wanton here, hence with you flye,And like false friends forsake me when I dye.For but a walking tombe, what can he be;Whose best of life is forc't to part with thee?

I am engag'd to sorrow, and my heartFeeles a distracted rage. Though you departAnd leave me to my feares; let love in spiteOf absence, our divided soules unite.But you must goe. The melancholy DovesDrawVenuschariot hence. The sportive LovesWhich wont to wanton here, hence with you flye,And like false friends forsake me when I dye.For but a walking tombe, what can he be;Whose best of life is forc't to part with thee?

I am engag'd to sorrow, and my heart

Feeles a distracted rage. Though you depart

And leave me to my feares; let love in spite

Of absence, our divided soules unite.

But you must goe. The melancholy Doves

DrawVenuschariot hence. The sportive Loves

Which wont to wanton here, hence with you flye,

And like false friends forsake me when I dye.

For but a walking tombe, what can he be;

Whose best of life is forc't to part with thee?

ToCastara,Upon a trembling kisse at departure.Th' Arabian wind, whose breathing gently blowsPurple to th' Violet, blushes to the Rose;Did never yeeld an odour rich as this.Why are you then so thrifty of a kisse,Authoriz'd even by custome? Why doth feareSo tremble on your lip, my lip being neare?Thinke you I parting with so sad a zeale,Will act so blacke a mischiefe, as to stealeThy Roses thence? And they, by this device,Transplanted: somewhere else force Paradice?Or else you feare, lest you, should my heart skipUp to my mouth, t' incounter with your lip,Might rob me of it: and be judg'd in this,T' haveJudaslike betraid me with a kisse.

Th' Arabian wind, whose breathing gently blowsPurple to th' Violet, blushes to the Rose;Did never yeeld an odour rich as this.Why are you then so thrifty of a kisse,Authoriz'd even by custome? Why doth feareSo tremble on your lip, my lip being neare?Thinke you I parting with so sad a zeale,Will act so blacke a mischiefe, as to stealeThy Roses thence? And they, by this device,Transplanted: somewhere else force Paradice?Or else you feare, lest you, should my heart skipUp to my mouth, t' incounter with your lip,Might rob me of it: and be judg'd in this,T' haveJudaslike betraid me with a kisse.

Th' Arabian wind, whose breathing gently blows

Purple to th' Violet, blushes to the Rose;

Did never yeeld an odour rich as this.

Why are you then so thrifty of a kisse,

Authoriz'd even by custome? Why doth feare

So tremble on your lip, my lip being neare?

Thinke you I parting with so sad a zeale,

Will act so blacke a mischiefe, as to steale

Thy Roses thence? And they, by this device,

Transplanted: somewhere else force Paradice?

Or else you feare, lest you, should my heart skip

Up to my mouth, t' incounter with your lip,

Might rob me of it: and be judg'd in this,

T' haveJudaslike betraid me with a kisse.

ToCastara,Looking backe at her departing.Looke backeCastara. From thy eyeLet yet more flaming arrowes flye.To live, is thus to burne and dye.For what might glorious hope desire,But that thy selfe, as I expire,Should bring both death and funerall fire?Distracted Love, shall grieve to seeSuch zeale in death: For feare lest heHimselfe, should be consumed in me.And gathering up my ashes, weepe,That in his teares he then may sleepe:And thus embalm'd, as reliques, keepe.Thither let lovers pilgrims turne,And the loose flames in which they burne,Give up as offerings to my Urne.That them the vertue of my shrine,By miracle so long refine;Till they prove innocent as mine.

Looke backeCastara. From thy eyeLet yet more flaming arrowes flye.To live, is thus to burne and dye.

Looke backeCastara. From thy eye

Let yet more flaming arrowes flye.

To live, is thus to burne and dye.

For what might glorious hope desire,But that thy selfe, as I expire,Should bring both death and funerall fire?

For what might glorious hope desire,

But that thy selfe, as I expire,

Should bring both death and funerall fire?

Distracted Love, shall grieve to seeSuch zeale in death: For feare lest heHimselfe, should be consumed in me.

Distracted Love, shall grieve to see

Such zeale in death: For feare lest he

Himselfe, should be consumed in me.

And gathering up my ashes, weepe,That in his teares he then may sleepe:And thus embalm'd, as reliques, keepe.

And gathering up my ashes, weepe,

That in his teares he then may sleepe:

And thus embalm'd, as reliques, keepe.

Thither let lovers pilgrims turne,And the loose flames in which they burne,Give up as offerings to my Urne.

Thither let lovers pilgrims turne,

And the loose flames in which they burne,

Give up as offerings to my Urne.

That them the vertue of my shrine,By miracle so long refine;Till they prove innocent as mine.

That them the vertue of my shrine,

By miracle so long refine;

Till they prove innocent as mine.

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