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Pompe, (even a burthen to it self) nor pride,
(The magistrate of sinnes) did e're abide
Ambition ne're
On that so sacred earth.

CASTARA.

TO CASTARA,

Built, for the sport of ruine, fabrickes there.
Thence age and death are exil'd, all offence
And fear expell'd, all noyse and function thence.
A silence there so melancholly sweet,

That none but whispring turtles ever meet :
Thus Paradise did our first parents wooe
To harmlesse sweets, at first possest by two.
And o're this second wee'le usurpe the throne;
Castara wee'le obey, and rule alone.
For the rich vertue of this soyle, I fear,
Would be deprav'd, should but a third be there.

INVITING HER TO SLEEPE.

SLEEPE, my Castara, silence doth invite

Thy eyes to close up day; though envious Night
Grieves Fate should her the sight of them debarre;
For she is exil'd, while they open are.
With drowsie charmes
Rest in thy peace secure.
Kinde Sleepe bewitcheth thee into her armes ;
And finding where Love's chiefest treasure lies,
Is like a theefe stole under thy bright eyes.
[guilt
Thy innocence, rich as the gaudy quilt
Wrought by the Persian hand, thy dreames from
Exempted, Heaven with sweete repose doth crowne
Each vertue softer than the swan's fam'd downe.
As exorcists wild spirits mildly lay,
May sleepe thy fever calmely chase away.

TO CASTARA IN A TRANCE.

FORSAKE me not so soone. Castara, stay,
And as I breake the prison of my clay,
Ile fill the canvas with m' expiring breath,

And with thee saile o're the vast maine of Death.
Some cherubin thus, as we passe, shall play :
"Goe, happy twins of love!" the courteous sea
Shall smooth her wrinkled brow: the winds shall
Or onely whisper musicke to the deepe.
Every ungentle rocke shall melt away,
The Syrens sing to please, not to betray.
Th' indulgent skie shall smile: each starry quire
Contend, which shall afford the brighter fire.

[sleep,

While Love, the pilot, steeres his course so even, Neere to cast anchor till we reach at Heaven.

TO DEATH,

CASTARA BEING SICKE.

HENCE, prophane grim man! nor dare
To aproach so neere my faire.
Marble vaults, and gloomy caves,
Church-yards, charnell-houses, graves,
Where the living loath to be,
Heaven hath design'd to thee.

But if needs 'mongst us thou'lt rage,
Let thy fury feed on age.
Wrinkled browes, and withered thighs,
May supply thy sacrifice.

Yet, perhaps, as thou flew'st by,
A flamed dart, shot from her eye,
Sing'd thy wings with wanton fire,
Whence th' art forc't to hover nigh her.
If Love so mistooke his aime,
Gently welcome in the flame:
They who loath'd thee, when they see
Where thou harbor'st, will love thee.
Onely I, such is my fate,
Must thee as a rivall hate;
Court her gently, learn to prove

Nimble in the thefts of love.

Gaze on th' errors of her haire:
Touch her lip; but, oh! beware,
Lest too ravenous of thy blisse,
Thou shouldst murder with a kisse.

VPON CASTARA'S RECOVERIE. SHE is restor❜d to life. Vnthrifty Death, Thy mercy in permitting vitall breath Backe to Castara, hath enlarg'd us all, Whom griefe had martyr'd in her funerall. While others in the ocean of their teares Had, sinking, wounded the beholders' eares With exclamations: I, without a grone, Had suddenly congeal'd into a stone: There stood a statue, till the general doome Had ruin'd time and memory with her tombe. While in my heart, which marble, yet still bled, Each lover might this epitaph have read :

"Her earth lyes here below; her soul's above; This wonder speakes her vertue, and my love."

TO A FRIEND,

INVITING HIM TO A MEETING UPON PROMISE.

MAY you drinke beare, or that adult'rate wine
Which makes the zeale of Amsterdam divine,
If you make breach of promise. I have now
So rich a sacke, that even your selfe will bow
T'adore my genius. Of this wine should Prynne
Drinke but a plenteous glasse, he would beginne
A health to Shakespeare's ghost. But you may
bring

Some excuse forth, and answer me, the king
To day will give you audience, or that on
Affaires of state you and some serious don
Are to resolve; or else perhaps you'le sin
So farre, as to leave word y' are not within.

The least of these will make me onely thinke
Him subtle, who can in his closet drinke,
Drunke even alone, and, thus made wise, create
As dangerous plots as the Low Countrey state;
Projecting for such baits, as shall draw ore
To Holland all the herrings from our shore.

But y'are too full of candour: and I know
Will sooner stones at Salis'bury casements throw,
Or buy up for the silenc'd Levits all
The rich impropriations, than let pall

So pure Canary, and breake such an oath:
Since charity is sinn'd against in both.

Come, therefore, blest even in the Lollards' zeale, Who canst, with conscience safe, 'fore hen and veale Say grace in Latine; while I faintly sing A penitentiall verse in oyle and ling. Come, then, and bring with you, prepar'd for fight, Vnmixt Canary, Heaven send both prove right! This I am sure: my sacke will disingage All humane thoughts, inspire so high a rage, That Hypocrene shall henceforth poets lacke, Since more enthusiasmes are in my sacke. Heightned with which, my raptures shall commend, How good Castara is, how deare my friend.

TO CASTARA,

WHERE TRUE HAPPINESSE ABIDES.

CASTARA, whisper in some dead man's eare
This subtill quære; and hee'le point out where,
By answers negative, true joyes abide.
Hee'le say they flow not on th' uncertaine tide
Of greatnesse, they can no firme basis have
Vpon the tripidation of a wave.

Nor lurke they in the caverns of the earth,
Whence all the wealthy minerals draw their birth,
To covetous man so fatall. Nor i' th' grace
Love they to wanton of a brighter face,
For th'are above time's battery, and the light
Of beauty, age's cloud will soone be night.

If among these content, he thus doth prove,
Hath no abode; where dwells it but in love?

TO CASTARA.

FORSAKE with me the Earth, my faire,
And travell nimbly through the aire,
Till we have reacht th' admiring skies;
Then lend sight to those heavenly eyes
Which, blind themselves, make creatures see.
And taking view of all, when we
Shall finde a pure and glorious spheare,
Wee'le fix like starres for ever there.
Nor will we still each other view,
Wee'le gaze on lesser starres than you;
See how by their weake influence they
The strongest of men's actions sway.
In an inferiour orbe below
Wee'le see Calisto loosely throw
Her haire abroad: as she did weare
The selfe-same beauty in a beare,
As when she a cold virgin stood,
And yet enflam'd Iove's lustfull blood.
Then looke on Lede, whose faire beames,
By their reflection, guild those streames,
Where first unhappy she began
To play the wanton with a swan.
If each of these loose beauties are
Transform'd to a more beauteous starre
By the adult'rous lust of Iove;
Why should not we, by purer love?

TO CASTARA,

VPON THE DEATH OF A LADY.

CASTARA, weepe not, tho' her tombe appeare
Sometime thy griefe to answer with a teare:
The marble will but wanton with thy woe.
Death is the sea, and we like rivers flow
To lose our selves in the insatiate maine,
Whence rivers may, she ne're returne againe.
Nor grieve this christall streame so soone did fall
Into the ocean; since shee perfum'd all

The banks she past, so that each neighbour field
Did sweete flowers cherish by her watring, yeeld,
Which now adorne her hearse. The violet there
On her pale cheeke doth the sad livery weare,
Which Heaven's compassion gave her and since
she,

'Cause cloath'd in purple, can no mourner be,
As incense to the tombe see gives her breath,
And fading on her lady waits in death:
Such office the Ægyptian handmaids did
Great Cleopatra, when she dying chid
The asp's slow venom, trembling she should be
By Fate rob'd even of that blacke victory.

The flowers instruct our sorrowes. Come, then, all
Ye beauties, to true beautie's funerall,
And with her to increase death's pompe, decay.
Since the supporting fabricke of your clay

Is falne, how can ye stand? How can the night Show stars, when Fate puts out the daye's great light?

But 'mong the faire, if there live any yet,
She's but the fairer Digbie's counterfeit.
Come you, who speake your titles. Reade in this
Pale booke, how vaine a boast your greatnesse is!
What's honour but a hatchment? What is here
Of Percy left, and Stanly, names most deare
To vertue! but a crescent turn'd to th' wane,
An eagle groaning o're an infant slaine?
Or what availes her, that she once was led,
A glorious bride, to valiant Digbie's bed,
Since death hath them divorc'd? If then alive
There are, who these sad obsequies survive,
And vaunt a proud descent, they onely be
Loud heralds to set forth her pedigree.
Come all, who glory in your wealth, and view
The embleme of your frailty! How untrue
(Tho' flattering like friends) your treasures are,
Her fate hath taught: who, when what ever rare
The either Indies boast, lay richly spread
For her to weare, lay on her pillow dead.
Come likewise, my Castara, and behold,
What blessings ancient prophesie foretold,
Bestow'd on her in death. She past away
So sweetly from the world, as if her clay
Laid onely downe to slumber. Then forbeare
To let on her blest ashes fall a teare.
But if th' art too much woman, softly weepe,
Lest griefe disturbe the silence of her sleepe.

TO CASTARA,

BEING TO TAKE A JOURNEY.

WHAT'S death more than departure? The dead go
Like travelling exiles, compell'd to know
Those regions they heard mention of: 'tis th' art
Of sorrowes, sayes, who dye doe but depart.

Then weepe thy funeral teares: Which Heaven, Who are the soule of women.

t' adorne

The beauteous tresses of the weeping morne,
Will rob me of: and thus my tombe shall be
As naked, as it had no obsequie.

Know in these lines, sad musicke to thy eare,
My sad Castara, you the sermon here
Which I preach o're my hearse: and dead, I tell
My owne live's story, ring but my owne knell.

But when I shall returne, know 'tis thy breath,
In sighs divided, rescues me from death.

TO CASTARA,

WEEPING.

CASTARA! O you are too prodigall

O' th' treasure of your teares; which, thus let fall, Make no returne; well plac'd calme peace might bring

To the loud wars, each free a captiv'd king.
So the unskilfull Indian those bright jems,
Which might adde majestie to diadems,
'Mong the waves scatters, as if he would store
The thanklesse sea, to make our empire poore:
When Heaven darts thunder at the wombe of time,
'Cause with each moment it brings forth a crime,
Or else despairing to root out abuse,
Would ruine vitious Earth; be then profuse.

Light chas'd rude chaos from the world before,
Thy teares, by hindring its returne, worke more.

TO CASTARA,

VPON A SIGH.

I HEARD a sigh, and something in my eare
Did whisper, what my soule before did feare,
That it was breath'd by thee. May th' easie Spring,
Enricht with odours, wanton on the wing
Of th' easterne wind, may ne're his beauty fade,
If he the treasure of this breath convey'd :
'Twas thine by th' musicke which th' harmonious
breath

Of swans is like, propheticke in their death:
And th' odour, for as it the nard expires,
Perfuming, phenix-like, his funerall fires.
The winds of Paradice send such a gale,
To make the lover's vessel calmely saile
To his lov'd port. This shall, where it inspires,
Increase the chaste, extinguish unchaste fires.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LADY F.

MADAM,

You saw our loves, and prais'd the mutuall flame :
In which as incense to your sacred name
Burnes a religious zeale. May we be lost
To one another, and our fire be frost,
When we omit to pay the tribute due

To worth and vertue, and in them to you:

Others be

But beauteous parts o' th' female body: she
Who boasts how many nimble Cupids skip
Through her bright face, is but an eye or lip;
The other, who in her soft brests can show
Warme violets growing in a banke of snow,
And vaunts the lovely wonder, is but skin:
Nor is she but a hand, who holds within
The chrystall violl of her wealthy palme,
The precious sweating of the easterne balme.
And all these, if you them together take,
And joyne with art, will but one body make,
To which the soule each vitall motion gives;
You are infus'd into it, and it lives.

But should you up to your blest mansion flie,
How loath'd an object would the carkasse lie?
You are all mind. Castara, when she lookes
On you, th' epitome of all, that bookes
Or e're tradition taught; who gives such praise
Vnto your sex, that now even custome sayes
He hath a female soule, who ere hath writ
Volumes which learning comprehend, and wit.
Castara cries to me : "Search out and find
The mines of wisdome in her learned mind,
And trace her steps to honour: I aspire
Enough to worth, while I her worth admire.”

TO CASTARA,

AGAINST OPINION.

WHY should we build, Castara, in the aire
Of fraile Opinion? Why admire as faire,
What the weake faith of man give us for right?
The jugling world cheats but the weaker sight.
What is in greatnesse happy? As free mirth,
As ample pleasures of th' indulgent Earth,
We joy who on the ground our mansion finde,
As they, who saile like witches in the wind
Of court applause. What can their powerfull spell
Over inchanted man more than compel

Him into various formes? Nor serves their charme
Themselves to good, but to worke others harme.
Tyrant Opinion but depose; and we
Will absolute i' th' happiest empire be.

TO CASTARA,

VPON BEAUTIE.

CASTARA, See that dust, the sportive wind
So wantons with. 'Tis happ'ly all you'le finde
Left of some beauty: and how still it flies,
To trouble, as it did in life, our eyes.

O empty boast of flesh! though our heires gild
The farre fetch't Phrigian marble, which shall build
A burthen to our ashes, yet will death
Betray them to the sport of every breath.
Dost thou, poore relique of our frailty, still
Swell up with glory? Or is it thy skill

To mocke weake man, whom every wind of praise
Into the aire doth 'bove his center raise?

If so, mocke on; and tell him that his lust
To beauti's madnesse; for it courts but dust.

TO CASTARA,

MELANCHOLLY.

WERE but that sigh a penitentiall breath
That thou art mine, it would blow with it death,
T' inclose me in my marble, where I'de be
Slave to the tyrant wormes, to set thee free.
What should we envy? Though with larger saile
Some dance upon the ocean; yet more fraile
And faithlesse is that wave, than where we glide,
Blest in the safety of a private tide.

We still have land in ken; and 'cause our boat
Dares not affront the weather, wee'le ne're float
Farre from the shore. To daring them each cloud
Is big with thunder, every wind speaks loud.

And rough wilde rockes about the shore appeare,
Yet virtue will find roome to anchor there.

A DIALOGUE,

BETWEENE ARAPHILL AND CASTARA.

ARAPHILL.

CASTARA, you too fondly court

The silken peace with which we cover'd are: Unquiet Time may, for his sport,

Up from its iron den rouse sleepy Warre.

CASTARA.

Then, in the language of the drum,

I will instruct my yet affrighted eare : All women shall in me be dumbe,

If I but with my Araphill be there.

ARAPHILL.

If Fate like an unfaithfull gale,

Which having vow'd to th' ship a fair event, O' th' sudden rends her hopefull saile,

Blow ruine will Castara then repent?

CASTARA.

Love shall in that tempestuous showre

Her brightest blossome like the black-thorne show: Weake friendship prospers by the powre

Of Fortune's sunne. I'le in her winter grow.

ARAPHILL.

If on my skin the noysome skar

I should o' th' leprosie or canker weare;
Or if the sulph'rous breath of warre [feare?
Should blast my youth: should I not be thy

CASTARA.

In flesh may sicknesse horror move,
But heavenly zeale will be by it refin'd;
For then wee'd like to angels love,
Without a sense; embrace each other's mind.

ARAPHILL.

Were it not impious to repine,

'Gainst rigid Fate I should direct my breath: That two must be, whom Heaven did joyne In such a happy one, disjoin'd by death.

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MY LORD,

My thoughts are not so rugged, nor doth earth
So farre predominate in me, that mirth
Lookes not as lovely as when our delight
First fashion'd wings to adde a nimbler flight
To lazie Time: who would, to have survai'd
Our varied pleasures, there have ever staid.
And they were harmlesse. For obedience,
If frailty yeelds to the wild lawes of sense,
We shall but with a sugred venome meete:
No pleasure, if not innocent as sweet.
And that's your choyce: who adde the title good
To that of noble. For although the blood
Of Marshall, Standley, and La Pole, doth flow,
With happy Brandon's, in your veines; you owe
Your vertue not to them. Man builds alone
O' th' ground of honour: for desert's our owne,
Be that your ayme.
I'le with Castara sit

I' th' shade, from heat of businesse. While my wit
Is neither big with an ambitious ayme,

To build tall pyramids i' th' court of Fame.
For after ages, or to win conceit

O' th' present, and grow in opinion great.
Rich in ourselves, we envy not the East
Her rockes of diamonds, or her gold the West.
Arabia may be happy in the death
Of her reviving phenix: in the breath
Of cool Favonius, famous be the grove
Of Tempe while we in each other's love.
For that let us be fam'd. And when of all
That Nature made us two, the funerall
Leaves but a little dust, (which then as wed,
Even after death, shall sleepe still in one bed.)
The bride and bridegroome, on the solemne day,
Shall with warme zeale approach our urne, to pay
Their vowes, that Heaven should blisse so far their
To show them the faire paths to our delights. [rites,

TO A TOMBE.

TYRANT o're tyrants, thou who onely dost
Clip the lascivious beauty without lust:
What horrour at thy sight shootes thro' each sence !
How powerfull is thy silent eloquence,
Which never flatters! Thou instruct'st the proud,
That their swolne pompe is but an empty cloud,
Slave to each wind. The faire, those flowers they
have

Fresh in their cheeke, are strew'd upon a grave.
Thou tell'st the rich, their idoll is but earth.
The vainely pleas'd, that syren-like their mirth
Betrays to mischiefe, and that onely he
Dares welcome death, whose aimes at vertue be.
Which yet more zeale doth to Castara move.
What checks me, when the tombe perswades to

love!

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TO CASTARA.

UPON THOUGHT OF AGE AND DEATH.

THE breath of Time shall blast the flow'ry spring,
Which so perfumes thy cheeke, and with it bring
So darke a mist, as shall eclipse the light
Of thy faire eyes in an eternal night.
Some melancholy chamber of the earth,
(For that like Time devours whom it gave breath)
Thy beauties shall entombe, while all who ere
Lov'd nobly, offer up their sorrowes there.
But I, whose griefe no formal limits bound,
Beholding the darke caverne of that ground,
Will there immure my selfe. And thus I shall
Thy mourner be, and my owne funerall.
Else by the weeping magicke of my verse,
Thou hast reviv'd to triumph o're thy hearse.

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THE reverend man, by magicke of his prayer,
Hath charm'd so, that I and your daughter are
Contracted into one. The holy lights
Smil'd with a cheerfull lustre on our rites,
And every thing presag'd full happiness
To mutual love: if you'le the omen blesse.
Now grieve, my lord, 'tis perfected. Before
Afflicted seas sought refuge on the shore
From the angry north wind; ere th' astonisht spring
Heard in the ayre the feather'd people sing;
Ere time had motion, or the Sunne obtain'd
His province o're the day, this was ordain'd.
3 Nor think in her I courted wealth or blood,
Or more uncertain hopes: for had I stood

On th' highest ground of Fortune, the world knowne
No greatnesse but what waited on my throne:
And she had onely had that face and mind,
I, with my selfe, had th' Earth to her resign'd.
In vertue there's an empire. And so sweete
The rule is when it doth with beauty meete,
As fellow consul, that of Heaven they
Nor Earth partake, who would her disobey.
This captiv'd me. And ere I question'd why
I ought to love Castara, through my eye
This soft obedience stole into my heart.

Then found I Love might lend to th' quick-ey'd art
Of reason yet a purer sight: for he,

Tho' blind, taught her these Indies first to see,
In whose possession I at length am blest,
And with my selfe at quiet, here I rest,
As all things to my power subdu’d.
There's nought beyond this. The whole world is she.

To me

HIS MUSE SPEAKS TO HIM.

THY VOwes are heard, and thy Castara's name
Is writ as faire i'th' register of Fame,
As th' ancient beauties which translated are
By poets up to Heaven: each there astarre.
And though imperiall Tiber boast alone
Ovid's Corinna, and to Arn is knowne

But Petrarch's Laura; while our famous Thames
Doth murmur Sydney's Stella to her streames.

Yet hast thou Severne left, and she can bring
As many quires of swans as they to sing
Thy glorious love: which living shall by thee
The onely sovereign of those waters be.
Dead in love's firmament, no starre shall shine
So nobly faire, so purely chaste as thine.

TO VAINE HOPE.

THOU dream of madmen, ever changing gale,
Swell with thy wanton breath the gaudy saile
Of glorious fooles! Thou guidś't them who thee

court

To rocks, to quick-sands, or some faithlesse port.
Were I not mad, who, when secure at ease,
I might i'th' cabbin passe the raging seas,
Would like a franticke ship-boy wildly haste
To climbe the giddy top of th' unsafe mast?
Ambition never to her hopes did faine
A greatnesse, but I really obtaine

In my Castara. Wer't not fondnesse then

Timbrace the shadowes of true blisse? And when

My Paradise all flowers and fruits doth breed,

To rob a barren garden for a weed.

TO CASTARA.

HOW HAPPY, THOUGH IN AN OBSCURE FORTUNE.

WERE we by Fate throwne downe below our feare,
Could we be poore? Or question Nature's care
In our provision? She who doth afford
A feathered garment fit for every bird,
And onely voyce enough t' expresse delight:
She who apparels lillies in their white,
As if in that she'de teach man's duller sence,
Wh' are highest, should be so in innocence:
She who in damask doth attire the rose,
(And man t' himselfe a mockery to propose,
'Mong whom the humblest iudges grow to sit)
She who in purple cloathes the violet :

If thus she cares for things even voyd of sence,
Shall we suspect in us her providence?

TO CASTARA.

WHAT can the freedome of our love enthral?
Castara, were we dispossest of all

The gifts of Fortune: richer yet than she
Can make her slaves, wee'd in each other be.
Love in himself's a world. If we should have
A mansion but in some forsaken cave,
Wee'd smooth misfortune, and ourselves think then
Retir'd like princes from the noise of men,
To breath a while unflatter'd. Each wild beast,
That should the silence of our cell infest,
With clamour, seeking prey: wee'd fancie were
Nought but an avaritious courtier.

Wealth's but opinion. Who thinks others more
Of treasures have, than we, is onely poore.

3 S

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