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  ENGLISH REPRINTS

  WILLIAM HABINGTON

  Castara

  THE THIRD EDITION OF 1640; EDITED AND
  COLLATED WITH THE EARLIER ONES
  OF 1634, 1635

  EDITED BY

  EDWARD ARBER

  F.S.A. ETC. LATE EXAMINER IN ENGLISH
  LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE
  TO THE UNIVERSITY OF
  LONDON

  WESTMINSTER
  A. CONSTABLE AND CO.
  1895




CONTENTS


                                                                   PAGE

  INTRODUCTION,                                                       3

  BIBLIOGRAPHY, with FIRST LINES, etc., of the three first
  editions, showing the growth of the work,                           5


  CASTARA. The first Part,                                            9

  (1) THE AUTHOR,                                                    11
  (2) GEORGE TALBOT, To his best friend and Kinsman
  _William Habington_, Esquire,                                      14
  (3) A CHARACTER. _A Mistress_,                                     15
  (4) FIFTY-SEVEN Poems, chiefly on Love and Courtship,              17


  CASTARA. The second Part,                                          55

  (1) A CHARACTER. _A Wife_,                                         57
  (2) FIFTY Poems, chiefly on Wedded Happiness,                      59
  (3) A CHARACTER. _A Friend_,                                       99
  (4) EIGHT Elegies, _The Funerals of the Honourable my
  best friend and Kinsman_, GEORGE TALBOT, Esquire,                 101


  CASTARA. The third Part,                                          111

  (1) A CHARACTER. _A Holy Man_,                                    112
  (2) TWENTY-TWO Poems, chiefly Sacred, with Scripture
  Texts,                                                            115




_INTRODUCTION._


The old English family of HABINGDON, ABINGDON, HABINGTON, or ABINGTON
traced their pedigree beyond the reign of Henry III., to PHILIP DE
HABINGTON, of Abingdon, co. Cambridge: but that branch of the family
from which our Poet sprang, descended from RICHARD HABINGTON, of
Brokhampton, whose _third_ son JOHN was coifferer to Queen Elizabeth.
This JOHN HABINGTON, our Poet's grand-father, bought Hindlip Hall, an
estate beautifully situated about four miles from Worcester. He married
twice. By his second wife he had two sons, THOMAS; and EDWARD, who was
executed for Babington's plot in 1586.

Anthony-a-Wood gives this account of THOMAS HABINGTON. He 'was born
at Thorpe near to Chertsey in Surrey, on the 23 Aug. 1560, (at which
time and before the manor thereof belonged to his father) and at
about 16 years of age he became a commoner of Lincoln Coll. Where
spending about three years in academicall studies, was taken thence
by his father and sent to the universities of Paris and Rheimes in
France. After some time spent there in good letters, he return'd into
England, and expressing and shewing himself an adherent to Mary qu.
of Scots (who plotted with Anth. Babington against qu. Elizabeth) was
committed prisoner to the Tower of London, where continuing six years,
he profited more in that time in several sorts of learning, then he had
before in all his life. Afterwards he retired to Hendlip (the manor of
which his father had settled upon him) took to wife Mary the eldest
daughter of Edward lord Morley by Elizabeth his wife, daughter and sole
heir of Sir William Stanley knight, lord Mounteagle; and at riper years
survey'd Worcestershire, made a collection of most of its antiquities
from records, registers, evidences both private and public, monumental
inscriptions and arms.... At length, after he had lived to the age of
87 years, surrendred up his pious soul to God at Hendlip near Worcester
on the 8th October 1647, and was buried by his father in a vault under
the chancel of the church there.' _Ath. Oxon. iii. 222. Ed. 1817._

Hindlip Hall was full of lurking places. T. NASH in his _Hist. of Worc.
i._ 585-7, gives a transcript of _Ashmole's MSS. Vol._ 804, _fol._ 93,
at Oxford: which is a most graphic description of a search, _for eleven
nights and twelve days_, in Jan. 1605, through the house: wherein
Garnett the Jesuit and others were discovered, who were afterwards
executed.

  2.       THOMAS HABINGTON = MARY PARKER, d. of Lord MORLEY.
  b. 1560--d. 1647. æt. 87. | [Mary Habington is said to have written
                            |  the letter revealing the Gunpowder Plot.]
              +-------------+-------------+--------------------------+
              |                           |                          |
          WILLIAM = LUCY HERBERT. d.    MARY = W. COMPTON.     and other
  b. 1605-d. 1654.|  Lord POWIS.             |                 children.
     +------------+--+                       |
     |               |                   W. Compton. d. 1731,
  THOMAS.         CATHERINE = Osborne.     made a Bart. 6 May
  d. unmarried.             |             1686.
  He left Hindlip        +--+---+
  estate to Sir W.       |      |
  Compton, Bart.       Lucy. Eleanor.

3. Wood's account of our Poet is perhaps the most authentic. "WILLIAM
HABINGTON, was born at Hendlip, on the fourth [So have I been
instructed by letters from his son Tho. Habington esq.: dated 5 Jan.
1672.] (some say the fifth) day of November 1605, educated in S. Omers
and Paris; in the first of which he was earnestly invited to take
upon him the habit of the Jesuits, but by excuses got free and left
them. After his return from Paris, being then at man's estate, he was
instructed at home in matters of history by his father, and became an
accomplished gentleman.... This person, Will. Habington, who did then
run with the times, and was not unknown [what does Wood mean by this?]
to Oliver the usurper, died on the 30th of November 1654, and was
buried in the vault before-mentioned by the bodies of his father and
grand-father. The MSS. which he (and his father) left behind, are in
the hands of his son Thomas, and might be made useful for the public,
if in others."--_Ath. Oxon. iii. 223. Ed. 1817._

4. The Habingtons were connected with the Talbots through the above
RICHARD HABINGTON'S second son RICHARD HABINGTON, whose grand-daughter
ELEANOR BASKERVILLE married JOHN TALBOT of Longdon: and became the
mother of (1) JOHN, Lord TALBOT 10th Earl of SHREWSBURY, who succeeded
his bachelor uncle GEORGE TALBOT, the 9th Earl (lamented by our Poet
at _p._ 77) on his death, 2d April 1630: (2) of GEORGE TALBOT, our
author's bosom friend, who died young and unmarried; and of other
children.

5. The second son of the Earl of PEMBROKE, Sir WILLIAM HERBERT, was
created on 2d April 1629, 1st Baron POWIS. He had three children by
ELEANOR, youngest daughter of HENRY PERCY, 10th Earl of NORTHUMBERLAND,
Sir PERCY HERBERT, CATHERINE HERBERT, and LUCY HERBERT. This Lucy
Herbert is _Castara_.

6. A concurrence of allusions would seem to fix Habington's marriage
with Lucy Herbert, between 1630 and 1633: later than which it cannot
be: as the anniversary of his wedding day is celebrated in verse, at
_p._ 80. Most of the poems relate to

              'those of my blood
    And my _Castara's_.'

There is in their arrangement, a slight thread of continuity. We are to
realize the young Englishman, of good family, possibly not unhandsome,
wooing--with a culture and grace acquired in France--the young English
beauty: possibly under some disadvantage, being neither possessed of
high station nor large fortune; and the lady's father too having just
been made a Peer. The wooing beginning in town migrates to Marlow.

              See, he from _Marlow_ sends
    His eyes to _Seymours_.               _p._ 41.

The lovers meeting 'under the kind shade of this tree' is noticed. In
sum, the details of a pure courtship leading up to a happy marriage.

In "_Wits Recreations_, Selected [by the bookseller Humphry Blunden]
from the Finest Fancies of Moderne Muses. London, 1640:" is the
following.

  19. _To Mr William Habington on his Castara, a Poem._
      Thy Muse is chaste and thy _Castara_ too,
      'Tis strange at Court, and thou hadst power to woo
      And to obtain (what others were deny'd)
      The fair _Castara_ for thy vertuous bride:
          Enjoy what you dare wish, and may there be,
          Fair issues branch from both, to honor thee.

Again, the after incidents of life are alluded to, in the poems;
_Castara_ has a fever but she recovers, she mourns over the loss of
friends, and the like: while, the brightness and fancifulness of this
earlier poesy but reflect the happiness of the Poet's home.

7. There are also songs of Friendship. As where he reproaches his bosom
friend Talbot for not having seen him for three days, at _p._ 39, or
where he consoles him for the hard usage he has received from that
jilt _Astrodora_, at _p._ 82: and most of all, in the eight passionate
Elegies over his decease.

8. Occasionally there is a bit of lashing satire, as that against the
cravings of Poets, at _p._ 50: or of dry humour, as in

      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. _p._ 64.

9. Lastly: strangely intermingled are Requiems over the mortality of
Man, the vanity and uncertainty of all things; leading almost to a
disgust with life. Of this he thus gives the key-note in saying at _p._
114, 'When the necessities of nature returne him downe to earth, he
esteemes it a place he is condemned to.... To live he knows a benefit,
and the contempt of it ingratitude, and therefore loves, but not doates
on life.' To this frame of thought may be opposed the keen wise saying
of a great contemporary: Selden.

"Whilst you are upon Earth enjoy the good things that are here (to
that end were they given) and be not melancholly, and wish yourself in
Heaven. If a King should give you the keeping of a Castle, with all
things belonging to it, Orchards, Gardens, &_c._, and bid you use them;
withal promise you that after twenty years to remove you to Court, and
to make you a Privy Councellor. If you should neglect your Castle, and
refuse to eat of those fruits, and sit down, and whine, and wish you
were a Privy Councellor, do you think the King would be pleased with
you?"--_Table Talk, p. 84. Ed. 1867._

Our wisdom is to recognise the representations of Habington, and to
live in the spirit of Selden: thus 'using the world as not abusing it.'

       *       *       *       *       *

William Habington's works were published in the following order:--

     1634.    _Castara._ First edition in 4to.

     1635.    _Castara._ Second edition in 12mo.

     1639-40. _Castara._ Third edition in 12mo.

     1640.    _The Historie of Edward the Fourth, King of England._ By
                Wm. Habington Esquire. London. Fol.
                'Written and published as the desire of K. Charles I.':
                in which his father also 'had a considerable hand.'

     1640.    _The Queene of Arragon._ A Tragi-Comedie. London. 1640.
                'Which play he communicating to Philip earl of
                Pembroke, lord chamberlain of the houshold to K.
                Charles I. he caused it to be acted at court, and
                afterwards to be published against the author's will.'
                _Wood_: _idem._ It was revived at the Restoration: with
                a Prologue and Epilogue by S. BUTLER. _Remains_, i.
                185. Ed. by Thyer, 1759. It is reprinted in Dodsley's
                _Old Plays, ix._ 333. _Ed._ 1825.

     1641.    _Observations upon Historie._ London.
                These historical notes are six in number, upon as many
                points in modern History: as the death of Richard I;
                the battle of Varna, 1444; the fall of Constantinople;
                the abdication of Charles V.; &c.




_BIBLIOGRAPHY._


With FIRST LINES, &c. of the three first editions, showing the growth
of the work.


(a) ISSUES IN THE AUTHOR'S LIFETIME.

I. _As a separate publication._

  1. "=CASTARA=, &c. LONDON, Printed by _Anne Griffin_ for _William
      Cooke_, and are to be sold at his shop neare _Furnivals Inne_
      gate in Holburne. 1634. 4to."

Perfectly anonymous: all names being represented by initials. It
consists of only two Parts, each having a separate title page; in which
Parts are contained the following:

_CASTARA._ THE FIRST PART.                                          PAGE

  i. The Author. [A Prose Preface]                                    11
  ii. G[EORGE] T[ALBOT]. Not in the silence of content, and store     14
  iii. FIFTY-THREE Poems, by WILLIAM HABINGTON.
    1. Let the chaste Phœnix from the flowry East,                    17
    2. I saw _Castara_ pray, and from the skie,                       17
    3. Yee blushing Virgins happie are                                18
    4. By those chaste lamps which yeeld a silent light               18
    5. Where am I? not in heaven: for oh I feele                      19
    6. Not still ith' shine of Kings. Thou dost retire                19
    7. Doe not their prophane Orgies heare,                           20
    8. Sing forth sweete Cherubin (for we have choice                 21
    9. In vaine faire sorceresse, thy eyes speake charmes,            22
    10. While you dare trust the loudest tongue of fame,              22
    11. Why doth the stubborne iron prove                             23
    12. Transfix me with that flaming dart                            24
    13. Wing'd with delight (yet such as still doth beare             25
    14. Learned shade of _Tycho Brache_, who to us,                   26
    15. Ye glorious wits, who finde then Parian stone                 26
    16. If she should dye, (as well suspect we may,                   27
    17. You younger children of your father stay,                     27
    18. Fond Love himselfe hopes to disguise                          28
    19. FEARE. Checke thy forward thoughts, and know                  28
    20. Nimble boy in thy warme flight,                               29
    21. _Cupids_ dead, who would not dye,                             30
    22. Fly on thy swiftest wing, ambitious Fame,                     30
    23. ARAPHILL. Dost not thou _Castara_ read                        31
    24. Why haste you hence _Castara_? Can the earth,                 32
    25. I am engag'd to sorrow, and my heart                          33
    26. Th' Arabian wind, whose breathing gently blows                33
    27. Looke backe _Castara_. From thy eye                           33
    28. Tis madnesse to give physicke to the dead;                    34
    29. The lesser people of the ayre conspire                        34
    30. Swift in thy watry chariot, courteous _Thames_,               35
    31. My Muse (great Lord) when last you heard her sing             35
    32. Thankes _Cupid_, but the Coach of _Venus_ moves               36
    33. How fancie mockes me? By th' effect I prove,                  37
    34. Faire Mistresse of the earth, with garlands crown'd,          37
    35. With your calme precepts goe, and lay a storme,               38
    36. Tis I _Castara_, who when thou wert gone,                     38
    37. Pronounce me guilty of a Blacker crime,                       39
    38. Thrice hath the pale-fac'd Empresse of the night,             39
    39. Scorn'd in thy watry Urne _Narcissus_ lye,                    40
    40. Banisht from you, I charg'd the nimble winde,                 40
    41. Blest Temple, haile, where the Chast Altar stands,            41
    42. Bright Dew which dost the field adorne                        41
    43. Stay under the kinde shadow of this tree                      42
    44. Dare not too farre _Castara_, for the shade                   43
    45. Vowes are vaine. No suppliant breath                          43
    46. Night. Let silence close my troubled eyes,                    44
    47. Your judgement's cleere, not wrinckled with the Time,         45
    48. What should we feare _Castara_? The coole aire,               46
    49. More welcome my _Castara_, then was light                     46
    50. Why dost thou looke so pale, decrepit man?                    52
    51. T'was Night: when _Phœbe_ guided by thy rayes,                52
    52. Why would you blush _Castara_, when the name                  53
    53. Like the Violet which alone                                   53


_CASTARA._ THE SECOND PART.

  iv. THIRTY-SIX more Poems.
    54. This day is ours. The marriage Angell now                     59
    55. Did you not see, _Castara_, when the King                     59
    56. Whose whispers soft as those which lovers breath              60
    57. Forsake me not so soone. _Castara_ stay,                      61
    58. Hence prophane grim man, nor dare                             61
    59. Sleepe my _Castara_, silence doth invite                      62
    60. She is restor'd to life. Unthrifty Death,                     62
    61. May you drinke beare, or that adult'rate wine                 63
    62. _Castara_ whisper in some dead mans eare,                     64
    63. Forsake with me the earth, my faire,                          64
    64. _Castara_ weepe not, though her tombe appeare                 65
    65. What's death more than departure; the dead go                 67
    66. _Castara!_ O you are too prodigall                            67
    67. I heard a sigh, and something in my eare                      68
    68. You saw our loves, and prais'd the mutuall flame              68
    69. Why should we build, _Castara_, in the aire                   69
    70. _Castara_, see that dust, the sportive wind                   70
    71. Were but that sigh a penitentiall breath                      70
    72. ARAPHILL. _Castara_ you too fondly court                      71
    73. My thoughts are not so rugged, nor doth earth                 72
    74. Tyrant o're tyrants, thou who onely dost                      73
    75. The breath of time shall blast the flowry Spring,             73
    76. The reverend man by magicke of his prayer                     74
    77. Thy vowes are heard, and thy _Castara's_ name                 75
    78. Thou dreame of madmen, ever changing gale,                    75
    79. Were we by fate throwne downe below our feare                 76
    80. What can the freedome of our love enthrall?                   76
    81. Bright Saint, thy pardon, if my sadder verse                  77
    82. I like the greene plush which your meadows weare              78
    83. Thou art return'd (great Light) to that blest houre           80
    84. They meet but with unwholesome Springs                        80
    85. The Laurell doth your reverend temples wreath                 81
    86. 'Bout th' husband Oke, the Vine                               82
    87. Let not thy grones force Eccho from her cave,                 82
    88. We saw and woo'd each others eyes                             83
    89. Here Virgin fix thy pillars, and command                      98

  2. "_CASTARA_, &c. The Second Edition. Corrected and Augmented.
      London. Printed by _B. A._ and _T. F._ for _Will. Cooke_, and
      are to bee sold at his shop neare _Furnivals-Inne_ Gate in
      _Holburne_, 1635. 12mo."

In this second edition, the authorship is avowed by means of a new
heading to G. Talbot's poem, at _p._ 14. It still consists of but two
Parts, each with a separate title: but is augmented by three Characters
in prose and twenty-six poems; all by Habington.


_CASTARA._ THE FIRST PART.

  i. A CHARACTER. _A Mistris._                                        15
  ii. FOUR additional poems are inserted.
    90. Hee who is good is happy. Let the loude                       47
    91. Harke, how the traytor winde doth court                       49
    92. It shall not grieve me (friend) though what I write           50
    93. You who are earth, and cannot rise                            51


_CASTARA._ THE SECOND PART.

  iii. A CHARACTER. _A Wife._                                         57
  iv. FOURTEEN additional Poems.
    94. Though my deare _Talbots_ Fate exact, a sad                   84
    95. If your example be obey'd                                     86
    96. Its false Arithmaticke to say thy breath                      88
    97. Why should we feare to melt away in death                     89
    98. When _Pelion_ wondring saw, that raine which fell             89
    99. O whither dost thou flye? Cannot my vow                       90
    100. Where sleepes the North-wind when the South inspires         90
    101. Should the cold _Muscovit_, whose furre and stove            91
    102. _Amphion_, O thou holy shade                                 92
    103. You'd leave the silence in which safe we are                 92
    104. Give me a heart where no impure                              94
    105. Why doth the eare so tempt the voyce,                        95
    106. I hate the Countries durt and manners, yet                   96
    107. I wonder when w'are dead, what men will say;                 97
  v. A CHARACTER. _A Friend._
  vi. EIGHT Elegies "_The Funerals of the Honourable, my best
  Friend and Kinsman_, GEORGE TALBOT, Esq."                          101
    108. (1) Twere malice to the fame; to weepe alone                101
    109. (2) _Talbot_ is dead. Like lightning which no part          102
    110. (3) Let me contemplate thee (faire soule) and though        103
    111. (4) My name, dear friend, even thy expiring breath          104
    112. (5) Chast as the Nuns first vow, as fairely bright          105
    113. (6) Goe stop the swift-wing'd moments in their flight       107
    114. (7) There is no peace in sinne. Æternall war                108
    115. (8) Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor all                 109

3. 1640. Third Edition in 12mo: with Titles, Characters, and Poems
arranged in the order here reprinted. For titles, see _pp._ 9, 55, 111.
There are no further additions to the first two parts: but there is
added an entire Third Part.


_CASTARA._ THIRD PART.

  i. A CHARACTER. _The Holy Man._                                    112
  ii. TWENTY-TWO Poems, chiefly Sacred, with mottoes from the Vulgate.
  We have here given the equivalent passages in the Authorized version:
  inserting between [] the Douay version! where it more closely follows
  the Latin of the Vulgate.
    116. _O Lord, open thou my lips._ Ps. li. 15. No monument of me
           remaine                                                   115
    117. _My harp also is turned to mourning._ Job xxx. 31. Love! I
           no orgies sing                                            116
    118. _I will destroy the wisdom of the wise._ 1 Cor. i. 19.
           Forgive my envie to the World; while I                    118
    119. [_Declare unto me the fewnes of my days_, Douay]. _He
           shortened my days._ Ps. cii. 23. Tell me O great All
           knowing God                                               119
    120. _Not unto us, O Lord._ Ps. cxv. 1. No marble statue, nor
           high                                                      120
    121. _The graves are ready for me._ Job xvii. 1. Welcome thou
           safe retreate!                                            121
    122. _He fleeth also as a shadow._ Job xiv. 2. What shadow your
           faire body made                                           122
    123. _Night unto night sheweth knowledge._ Ps. xix. 2. When I
           survay the bright                                         124
    124. _But the proud he knoweth afar off._ Ps. cxxxviii. 6. To
           the cold humble hermitage                                 125
    125. _Thou wilt make all his bed in his sickness._ Ps. xli. 3.
           My Soule! When thou and I                                 126
    126. _Praise ye the Lord from the heavens._ Ps. cxlviii. 1. You
           Spirits! who have throwne away                            127
    127. _He cometh forth like a flower._ Job xiv. 2. Faire Madame:
           you                                                       129
    128. _Why boasteth thou thyself in mischief._ Ps. lii. 1. Swell
           no more, proud man, so high!                              130
    129. _My God, my God._ Ps. xxii. 1. There is that foole
           Philosophie                                               131
    130. [_For I am ready for scourges_, Douay]. _For I am ready to
           halt._  Ps. xxxviii. 17. Fix me on some bleake precipice  133
    131. [_The life of man upon earth is a warfare_, Douay]. _Is
           there not an appointed time to man upon earth._ Job vii.
           1. Were it your appetite of glory, (which                 134
    132. _Shew me thy ways, O Lord._ Ps. xxv. 4. Where have I
           wandred? In what way                                      136
    133. _And exalteth them of low degree._ Luke i. 52. How
           cheerefully th' unpartiall Sunne                          138
    134. _Lord of Lords._ Deut. x. 17. Supreame Divinity! Who yet    139
    135. _I will be sorry for my sin._ Ps. xxxviii. 18. In what
           darke silent grove                                        140
    136. _I shall go softly all my years._ Is. xxxviii. 15. Time!
           where didst thou those years inter                        142
    137. _Having a desire to depart._ Phil. i. 23. The soule which
           doth with God unite                                       143


II. _With other Works._

None.


(b) ISSUES SINCE THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.

I. _As a separate publication._

  6. 14 April 1870. London. 1 vol. 8vo. _English Reprints_: see title
      at _p._ 1. This Edition follows No. 3 as to the arrangement of
      the Poems, &c.: but has been corrected with the earlier editions;
      when ever in spelling or punctuation the former were the better
      readings. In doubtful cases, the earlier variations are shown in
      footnotes.

  5. [1812.] Bristol. 1 vol. 8vo. "Habington's _Castara_, with a
      preface and notes by CHARLES A. ELTON." [A reprint of No. 3.]


II. _With other Works._

  4. London. 1810. 21 vols. 8vo. _The Works of the English Poets._ Ed.
      by A. CHALMERS, F.S.A. Vol. iv. 437-482 contains a Reprint of No.
      3.


III. _Selections, &c._

One or more of these Poems will be found in the Selections of Ellis, H.
Headley, _The Lyre of Love_, E. Sandford's _British Poets_, &c. &c.




CASTARA:

  --_Carmina non prius
  Audita, Musarum facerdos
  Virginibus._--

  The third Edition.
  Corrected and augmented

  [Illustration]

  _LONDON_

  Printed by _T. Cotes_, for _Will.
  Cooke_: and are to be sold at his
  Shop neere _Fernivals-Inne_ Gate
  in _Holburne_. 1640.




_The Author._


The Presse hath gathered into one, what fancie had scattered in many
loose papers. To write this, love stole some houres from businesse,
and my more serious study. For though Poetry may challenge if not
priority, yet equality with the best Sciences, both for antiquity
and worth; I never set so high a rate upon it, as to give my selfe
entirely up to its devotion. It hath too much ayre, and (if without
offence to our next transmarine neighbour,) [1]wantons too much
according to the French garbe. And when it is wholly imployed in the
soft straines of love, his soule who entertaines it, loseth much of
that strength which should confirme him man. The nerves of judgement
are weakned most by its dalliance, and when woman, (I meane onely
as she is externally faire) is the supreme object of wit, we soone
degenerate into effeminacy. For the religion of fancie declines into
a mad superstition, when it[2] adores that Idoll which is not secure
from age and sicknesse. Of such heathens, our times afford us a
pittyed multitude, who can give no nobler testimony of twenty yeares
imployment, then some loose coppies of lust happily exprest. Yet these
the common people of wit blow up with their breath of praise, and
honour with the Sacred name of Poets: To which as I beleeve they can
never have any just claime, so shall I not dare by this essay to lay
any title, since more sweate and oyle he must spend, who shall arrogate
so excellent an attribute. Yet if the innocency of a chaste Muse shall
bee more acceptable, and weigh heavier in the ballance of esteeme, than
a fame, begot in adultery of study; I doubt I shall leave them no hope
of competition. For how unhappie soever I may be in the elocution, I
am sure the Theame is worthy enough. In all those flames in which I
burnt I never felt a wanton heate, nor was my invention ever sinister
from the straite way of chastity. And when love builds upon that rocke,
it may safely contemne the battery of the waves, and threatnings of
the wind. Since time, that makes a mockery of the firmest structures
shall it selfe be ruinated, before that be demolisht. Thus was the
foundation layd. And though my eye in its survey, was satisfi'd, even
to curiosity, yet did not my search rest there. The Alabaster, Ivory,
Porphir, Jet, that lent an admirable beauty to the outward building,
entertained me with but a halfe pleasure, since they stood there onely
to make sport for ruine. But when my soule grew acquainted with the
owner of that mansion; I found that Oratory was dombe when it began
to speak her, and wonder (which must necessarily seize the best at
that time) a lethargie, that dulled too much the faculties of the
minde, onely fit to busie themselves in discoursing her perfections,
Wisdome, I encounter'd there, that could not spend it selfe since
it affected silence, attentive onely to instructions, as if all her
sences had beene contracted into hearing: Innocencie, so not vitiated
by conversation with the world, that the subtile witted of her sex,
would have tearm'd it ignorance: Wit, which seated it selfe most in
the apprehension, and if not inforc't by good manners, would scarce
have gain'd the name of affability: Modesty, so timorous, that it
represented a besieg'd Citty, standing watchfully upon her guard,
strongest in the loyalty to her Prince. In a word, all those vertues
which should restore woman to her primitive state of beauty, fully
adorn'd her. But I shall be censur'd, in labouring to come nigh the
truth, guilty of an indiscreet Rhetoricke. However such I fancied her,
for to say shee is, or was such, were to play the Merchant, and boast
too much the value of a Jewell I possesse, but have no minde to part
with. And though I appeare to strive against the streame of best wits,
in erecting the selfe same Altar, both to chastity and love; I will for
once adventure to doe well, without a president. Nor if my rigid friend
question superciliously the setting forth of these Poems, will I excuse
my selfe (though justly perhaps I might) that importunity prevail'd,
and cleere judgements advis'd. This onely I dare say, that if they are
not strangled with envie of the present, they may happily live in the
not dislike of future times. For then partiality ceaseth, and vertue is
without the idolatry of her clients, esteemed worthy honour. Nothing
new is free from detraction, and when Princes alter customes even
heavie to the subject, best ordinances are interpreted innovations.
Had I slept in the silence of my acquaintance, and affected no study
beyond that which the chase or field allowes, Poetry had then beene
no scandall upon me, and the love of learning no suspition of ill
husbandry. But what malice, begot in the Country upon ignorance, or
in the City upon Criticisme, shall prepare against me, I am armed to
endure. For as the face of vertue lookes faire without the adultery
of Art, so fame needes no ayde from rumour to strengthen her selfe.
If these lines want that courtship, (I will not say flattery) which
insinuates it selfe into the favour of great men, best; they partake of
my modesty. If Satyre to win applause with the envious multitude; they
expresse my content, which maliceth none, the fruition of that, they
esteeme happie. And if not too indulgent to what is my owne; I thinke
even these verses will have that proportion in the worlds opinion, that
heaven hath allotted me in fortune; not so high, as to be wondred at,
nor so low as to be contemned.

[1] she wantons too much. 1635.

[2] she adores. 1635.




  [3]To his best friend and Kinsman
  _William Habington_, Esquire.


    _Not in the silence of content and store
    Of private sweets ought thy Muse charme no more
    Then thy_ Castara's _eare. 'Twere wrong such gold
    Should not like Mines, (poore nam'd to this) behold
    It selfe a publike joy. Who her restraine,
    Make a close prisoner of a Soveraigne.
    Inlarge her then to triumph. While we see
    Such worth in beauty, such desert in thee,
    Such mutuall flames betweene you both, as show
    How chastity, though yce, like love can glow,
    Yet stand a Virgin: How that full content
    By vertue is to soules united, lent,
    Which proves all wealth is poore, all honours are
    But empty titles, highest power but care,
    That quits not cost. Yet Heaven to Vertue kind,
    Hath given you plenty to suffice a minde
    That knowes but temper. For beyond your state
    May be a prouder, not a happier Fate.
    I Write not this in hope t'incroach on fame,
    Or adde a greater lustre to your name.
    Bright in it selfe enough. We two are knowne
    To th' World, as to our selves, to be but one
    In blood as study: And my carefull love
    Did never action worth my name, approve
    Which serv'd not thee. Nor did we ere contend,
    But who should be best patterne of a friend.
    Who read thee, praise thy fancie, and admire
    Thee burning with so high and pure a fire,
    As reaches heaven it selfe. But I who know
    Thy soule religious to her ends, where grow
    No sinnes by art or custome, boldly can
    Stile thee more than good Poet, a good man.
    Then let thy temples shake off vulgar bayes,
    Th' hast built an Altar which enshrines thy praise:
    And to the faith of after time commends
    Yee the best paire of lovers, us of friends._

                                        [4]GEORGE TALBOT.

[3] _To his best friend and kinsman. On his_ CASTARA. 1634.

[4] G. T. 1634.




A Mistris


_Is the fairest treasure, the avarice of Love can covet; and the onely
white, at which he shootes his arrowes, nor while his aime is noble,
can he ever hit upon repentance. She is chaste, for the devill enters
the Idoll and gives the Oracle, when wantonnesse possesseth beauty,
and wit maintaines it lawfull. She is as faire as Nature intended her,
helpt perhaps to a more pleasing grace by the sweetnesse of education,
not by the flight of Art. She is young, for a woman past the delicacie
of her spring, may well move by vertue to respect, never by beauty
to affection. Shee is innocent even from the knowledge of sinne, for
vice is too strong to be wrastled with, and gives her frailty the
foyle. She is not proude, though the amorous youth interpret her
modestie to that sence; but in her vertue weares so much Majestie,
lust dares not rebell, nor though masqued, under the pretence of love,
capitulate with her. She entertaines not every parley offer'd, although
the Articles pretended to her advantage: advice and her own feares
restraine her, and woman never owed ruine to too much caution. She
glories not in the plurality of servants, a multitude of adorers heaven
can onely challenge, and it is impietie in her weakenesse to desire
superstition from many. She is deafe to the whispers of love, and even
on the marriage houre can breake off, without the least suspition of
scandall, to the former liberty of her carriage. She avoydes a too
neere conversation with man, and like the Parthian overcomes by flight.
Her language is not copious but apposit, and she had rather suffer the
reproach of being dull company, than have the title of Witty, with
that of Bold and Wanton. In her carriage she is sober, and thinkes
her youth expresseth life enough, without the giddy motion, fashion of
late hath taken up. She danceth to the best applause but doates not
on the vanity of it, nor licenceth an irregular meeting to vaunt the
levity of her skill. She sings, but not perpetually, for she knowes,
silence in woman is the most perswading oratory. She never arriv'd to
so much familiarity with man as to know the diminutive of his name, and
call him by it; and she can show a competent favour: without yeelding
her hand to his gripe. Shee never understood the language of a kisse,
but at salutation, nor dares the Courtier use so much of his practised
impudence as to offer the rape of it from her: because chastity hath
writ it unlawfull, and her behaviour proclaimes it unwelcome. She is
never sad, and yet not jiggish; her conscience is cleere from guilt,
and that secures her from sorrow. She is not passionately in love
with poetry, because it softens the heart too much to love; but she
likes the harmony in the Composition; and the brave examples of vertue
celebrated by it, she preposeth to her imitation. She is not vaine in
the history of her gay kindred or acquaintance; since vertue is often
tenant to a cottage, and familiarity with greatnesse (if worth be not
transcendant above the title) is but a glorious servitude, fooles onely
are willing to suffer. She is not ambitious to be prais'd, and yet
vallues death beneath infamy. And Ile conclude, (though the next sinod
of Ladies condemne this character as an heresie broacht by a Precision)
that onely she who hath as great a share in vertue as in beauty,
deserves a noble love to serve her, and a free Poesie to speake her._




_Fifty-seven Poems, chiefly on Love and Courtship._


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _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 name
    Of my _Castara's_ grav'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 bright flames: which here shall shine
    As Tapers fixt about _Castara's_ shrine.
      While I the Priest, my untam'd heart, surprise,
      And in this Temple mak't her sacrifice.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Praying_.

    I saw _Castara_ pray, 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 of_ CASTARA.

    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 them _Cupids_ nests.

    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 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.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _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 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.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Of his being in Love_.

    Where am I? not in Heaven: for oh I feele
    The stone of _Sisiphus_, _Ixions_ wheele;
    And all those tortures, Poets (by their wine
    Made judges) laid on _Tantalus_, 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 what _Castara's_ are,
    And in her sight and favour I even shine
    In a bright orbe beyond the Christalline.
      If then _Castara_ I 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 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: _Argus_ to 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, but _Castara's_ name.
    Climbe yonder forked hill, and see if there
    Ith' barke of every Daphne, not appeare
    _Castara_ written; 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' invoke _Castara_, 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; _Endymion_ sings his owne.

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


  _To_ CASTARA.

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

    _Castara_ rather seeke to dwell
    Ith' silence of a private cell.
    Rich discontent's a glorious hell.

    Yet _Hindlip_ doth 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.

    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 sip
    Sweete Nectar from a Fairies lip.

    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,
    Faire _Daphne_ her faire selfe shall free,
    From the chaste prison of a tree:

    And with _Narcissus_ (to thy face
    Who humbly will ascribe all grace)
    Shall once againe pursue the chase.

    So they, whose wisdome did discusse
    Of these as fictions: shall in us
    Finde, they were more then fabulous.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Softly singing to her selfe_.

    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 whom _Castara_ hath 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 proclaim
    To th' talking world: I in the silent'st grove,
    Scarce to my selfe dare whisper that I love.
    Thee, titles _Brud'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; may _Hymen_ weare
    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 if _Castara_ daigne
    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
    Then th' 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'd _Philomel_, hearing my mone,
    To sigh my greater griefes, forget her owne.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Inquiring why I loved her_.

    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 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 spie
    When Poets weepe some Virgins death,
    That _Cupid_ wantons 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'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 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 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.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Looking upon him_.

    Transfix me with that flaming dart
    Ith' eye, or brest, or any part,
    So thou, _Castara_, spare my heart.

    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.

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

    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.


  [7]_To the right honourable the Countesse of_ Ar.

    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_, '<DW41> 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
    _Narcissus_ obsequies: 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?
    _Castara_ hath 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_, Anne _Countesse of_
Ar. 1634, 1635.


  _Upon_ CASTARA'S _frowne or smile_.

    Learned shade of _Tycho Brache_, who to us,
    The stars propheticke language didst impart,
    And even in life their mysteries discusse:
    _Castara_ hath o'rethrowne thy strongest art.

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

    And _Flora_ by 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.


  _In_ CASTARA,
  _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 sings _Castara's_ name?
    Aspiring soules, who grow but in a Spring,
    Forc't by the warmth of some indulgent King:
    Know if _Castara_ smile: 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 thought_ CASTARA _may 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 inspire
    More chastity, in dimmer starres more fire.
    You twins of _Læda_ (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 of_ CASTARA.

    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 in _Castara's_ face;
    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,
      _Castara_ shall like me, grow old, and die.


  _To a friend inquiring her name, whom he loved._

    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 tride
    In all his arts, hee'le be discride.

    I must confesse (Deare friend) my flame,
    Whose boasts _Castara_ so 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 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.


  _A Dialogue betweene_ HOPE _and_ FEARE.

    FEARE. Checke thy forward thoughts, and know
           _Hymen_ onely joynes their hands;
           Who with even paces goe,
           Shee in gold, he rich in lands.

    HOPE.  But _Castara's_ purer 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 weight
           When 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:
           Choose _Castara_ which shall burne,
           Choose the purest, that is, mine.


  _To_ CUPID,
  _Upon a dimple in_ CASTARA'S _cheeke_.

    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 of _Jove_ that 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 lies _Cupid_ blest in death."


  _Upon_ CUPID'S _death and buriall in_ CASTARA'S _cheeke_.

    _Cupids_ dead. 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 first _Castara_ smil'd,
    Thinking _Cupid_ her 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 pittious _Jove_,
    From the ashes of this Love,
    Made ten thousand _Cupids_ rise,
    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.


  _To_ Fame.

    Fly on thy swiftest wing, ambitious Fame,
    And speake to the cold North _Castara's_ name:
    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 as _Zephirus_ coole 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 betweene_ ARAPHILL _and_ CASTARA.

    ARAPH. Dost not thou _Castara_ read
            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.

    CAST.   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.

    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 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.

    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.  _Hymens_ torch 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 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.

    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.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Intending a journey into the Countrey_.

    Why haste you hence _Castara_? 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.


  _Upon_ CASTARA'S _departure_.

    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
    Draw _Venus_ chariot 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?


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Upon a trembling kisse at departure_.

    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' have _Judas_ like betraid me with a kisse.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Looking backe at her departing_.

    Looke backe _Castara_. 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?

    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.

    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.


  _Upon_ CASTARA'S _absence_.

    Tis madnesse to give Physicke to the dead;
    Then leave me friends: Yet haply you'd here
    A lecture; but I'le not dissected be,
    T' instruct your Art by my anatomie.
    But still you trust your sense, sweare you discry
    No difference in me. All's deceit oth' eye,
    Some spirit hath a body fram'd in th' ayre,
    Like mine, which he doth to delude you, weare:
    Else heaven by miracle makes me survive
    My selfe, to keepe in me poore Love alive.
    But I am dead, yet let none question where
    My best part rests, and with a sigh or teare,
    Prophane the Pompe, when they my corps interre,
    My soule imparadis'd, for 'tis with her.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Complaining her absence in the Country_.

    The lesser people of the ayre conspire
    To keepe thee from me, _Philomel_ with higher
    And sweeter notes, wooes thee to weepe her rape,
    Which would appease the gods, and change her shape.
    The early Larke, preferring 'fore soft rest
    Obsequious duty, leaves his downy nest,
    And doth to thee harmonious tribute pay;
    Expecting from thy eyes the breake of day.
    From which the Owle is frighted, and doth rove
    (As never having felt the warmth of love.)
    In uncouth vaults, and the chill shades of night,
    Nor biding the bright lustre of thy sight.
      With him my fate agrees. Not viewing thee
      I'me lost in mists, at best, but meteors see.


  _To_ THAMES.

    Swift in thy watry chariot, courteous _Thames_,
    Hast by the happy error of thy streames,
    To kisse the banks of _Marlow_, which doth show
    Faire _Seymors_, and beyond that never flow.
    Then summon all thy Swans, that who did give
    Musicke to death, may henceforth sing, and live,
    For my _Castara_. She can life restore,
    Or quicken them who had no life before.
    How should the Poplar else the Pine provoke;
    The stately Cedar challenge the rude Oke
    To dance at sight of her? They have no sense
    From nature given, but by her influence.
      [10]If _Orpheus_ did those senslesse creatures move,
      He was a Prophet, and fore-sang my love.

[10]If _Orpheus_ did those senslesse creatures stirre,
    He was a Prophet, and fore-sang of her. 1634, 1635.


  _To the right honourable the Earle of_ SHREWES.[11]

    My Muse (great Lord) when last you heard her sing
    Did to your Uncles Urne, her off'rings bring:
    And if to fame I may give faith, your eares
    Delighted in the musicke of her teares.
    That was her debt to vertue. And when e're
    She her bright head among the clouds shall reare
    And adde to th' wondring heavens a new flame,
    Shee'le celebrate the Genius of your name.
    Wilde with another rage, inspir'd by love,
    She charmes the Myrtles of the Idalian grove.
    And while she gives the Cyprian stormes a law,
    Those wanton Doves which _Cythereia_ draw
    Through th' am'rous ayre: Admire what power doth sway
    The Ocean, and arrest them in their way.
    She sings _Castara_ then. O she more bright,
    Than is the starry Senate of the night;
    Who in their motion did like straglers erre,
    Cause they deriv'd no influence from her,
    Who's constant as she's chaste. The Sinne hath beene
    Clad like a neighb'ring shepheard often seene
    To hunt those Dales, in hope then _Daphnes_, there
    To see a brighter face. Th' Astrologer
    In th' interim dyed, whose proud Art could not show
    Whence that Ecclipse did on the sudden grow.
    A wanton Satyre eager in the chase
    Of some faire Nimph, beheld _Castara's_ face,
    And left his loose pursuite; who while he ey'd,
    Unchastely, such a beauty, glorified
    With such a vertue; by heavens great commands
    Turn'd marble, and there yet a Statute stands.
    As Poet thus. But as a Christian now,
    And by my zeale to you (my Lord) I vow,
    She doth a flame so pure and sacred move;
    In me impiety 'twere not to love.

[11] _To the Right Honourable my very good Lord_, JOHN _Earle of S._
1634, 1635.


  _To_ CUPID.
  _Wishing a speedy passage to_ CASTARA.

    Thankes _Cupid_, but the Coach of _Venus_ moves
    For me too slow, drawn but by lazie Doves.
    I, left a journey my delay should finde,
    Will leape into the chariot of the winde.
    Swift as the flight of lightning through the ayre,
    Hee'le hurry me till I approach the faire
    But unkinde _Seymors_. Thus he will proclaime,
    What tribute winds owe to _Castara's_ name.
    Viewing this prodigie, astonisht they,
    Who first accesse deny'd me, will obey,
    With feare what love commands: Yet censure me
    As guilty of the blackest sorcery.
      But after to my wishes milder prove:
      When they know this the miracle of love.


  _To_ CASTARA.
  _Of Love._

    How fancie mockes me? By th' effect I prove,
    'Twas am'rous folly, wings ascrib'd to love,
    And ore th' obedient elements command.
    Hee's lame as he is blinde, for here I stand
    Fixt as the earth. Throw then this Idoll downe
    Yee lovers who first made it; which can frowne
    Or smile but as you please. But I'me untame
    In rage. _Castara_ call thou[12] on his name,
    And though hee'le not beare up my vowes to thee,
    Hee'le triumph to bring downe my Saint to me.

[12] then. 1634.


  _To the_ Spring,
  _Upon the uncertainty of_ CASTARA'S _abode_.

    Faire Mistresse of[13] the earth, with garlands crown'd
    Rise, by a lovers charme, from the parcht ground,
    And shew thy flowry wealth: that she, where ere
    Her starres shall guide her, meete thy beauties there.
    Should she to the cold Northerne climates goe,
    Force thy affrighted Lillies there to grow;
    Thy Roses in those gelid fields t' appeare;
    She absent, I have all their Winter here.
    Or if to the torrid Zone her way she bend,
    Her the coole breathing of _Favonius_ lend,
    Thither command the birds to bring their quires.
    That Zone is temp'rate. I have all his fires.
      Attend her, courteous Spring, though we should here
      Lose by it all the treasures of the yeere.

[13] to. 1634, 1635.


  _To_ Reason,
  _Upon_ CASTARA'S _absence_.

    With your calme precepts goe, and lay a storme,
    In some brest flegmaticke which would conforme
    Her life to your cold lawes: In vain y' engage
    Your selfe on me. I will obey my rage.
    Shee's gone, and I am lost. Some unknowne grove
    I'le finde, whereby the miracle of Love
    I'le turne t' a fountaine, and divide the yeere,
    By numbring every moment with a teare.
    Where if _Castara_ (to avoyd the beames
    Oth' neighb'ring Sun) shall wandring meete my streames.
    And tasting, hope her thirst alaid shall be,
    Shee'le feele a sudden flame, and burne like me:
    And thus distracted cry. Tell me thou cleere,
    But treach'rous Fount, what lover's coffin'd here?


  _An[14] answere to_ CASTARA'S _question_.

    T'is I _Castara_, who when thou wert gone,
    Did freeze into this melancholy stone,
    To weepe the minutes of thy absence. Where
    Can greefe have freer scope to mourne than here?
    The Larke here practiseth a sweeter straine,
    _Aurora's_ early blush to entertaine,
    And having too deepe tasted of these streames,
    He loves, and amorously courts her beames.
    The courteous turtle with a wandring zeale,
    Saw how to stone I did my selfe congeale,
    And murm'ring askt what power this change did move,
    The language of my waters whispered, Love.
      And thus transform'd Ile stand, till I shall see,
      That heart so ston'd and frozen, thaw'd in thee.

[14] _In._ 1634.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Upon the disguising his affection_.

    Pronounce me guilty of a Blacker crime,
    Then e're in the large Volume writ by Time.
    The sad Historian reades, if not my Art
    Dissembles love, to veile an am'rous heart.
    For when the zealous anger of my friend
    Checkes my unusuall sadnesse: I pretend
    To study vertue, which indeede I doe,
    He must court vertue who aspires to you.
    Or that some friend is dead and then a teare,
    A sigh or groane steales from me: for I feare
    Lest death with love hath strooke my heart, and all
    These sorrowes usher but its funerall.
      [15]Which should revive, should there you a mourner be,
      And force a nuptiall in an obsequie.

[15] Which would revive, should you there mourner be. 1634, 1635.


  _To the honourable my honoured kinsman_, Mr. G. T.

    Thrice hath the pale-fac'd Empresse of the night,
    Lent in her chaste increase her borrowed light,
    To guide the vowing Mariner: since mute
    _Talbot_ th'ast beene, too slothfull to salute
    Thy exil'd servant. Labour not t' excuse
    This dull neglect: Love never wants a Muse.
    When thunder summons from eternall sleepe
    Th' imprison'd ghosts, and spreads oth' frighted deepe,
    A veile of darknesse; penitent to be
    I may forget, yet still remember thee,
    Next to my faire, under whose eye-lids move,
    In nimble measures beauty, wit, and love.
    Nor thinke _Castara_ (though the sexe be fraile,
    And ever like uncertaine vessels saile
    On th' ocean of their passions; while each wind
    Triumphs to see their more uncertaine mind,)
    Can be induc't to alter: Every starre
    May in its motion grow irregular;
    The Sunne forget to yeeld his welcome flame
    To th' teeming earth, yet she remaine the same.
    And in my armes (if Poets may divine)
    I once that world of beauty shall intwine,
    And on her lips print volumes of my love,
    Without a froward checke, and sweetly move
    Ith' Labyrinth of delight. If not, Ile draw
    Her picture on my heart, and gently thaw
    With warmth of zeale, untill I heaven entreat,
    To give true life to th' ayery counterfeit.


  Eccho _to_ Narcissus.
  _In praise of_ CASTARA'S _discreete Love_.

    Scorn'd in thy watry Urne _Narcissus_ lye,
    Thou shalt not force more tribute from my eye
    T' increase thy streames: or make me weepe a showre,
    To adde fresh beauty to thee, now a flowre.
    But should relenting heaven restore thee sence,
    To see such wisedome temper innocence,
    In faire _Castara's_ love; how she discreet,
    Makes caution with a noble freedome meete,
    At the same moment; thould'st confesse fond boy,
    Fooles onely think them vertuous, who are coy.
    And wonder not that I, who have no choyce
    Of speech, have praysing her so free a voyce:
    Heaven her severest sentence doth repeale,
    When to _Castara_ I would speake my zeale.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Being debarr'd her presence_.

    Banisht from you, I charg'd the nimble winde,
    My unseene Messenger, to speake my minde,
    In am'rous whispers to you. But my Muse
    Lest the unruly spirit should abuse
    The trust repos'd in him, sayd it was due
    To her alone, to sing my loves to you.
    Heare her then speake. Bright Lady, from whose eye
    Shot lightning to his heart, who joyes to dye
    A martyr in your flames: O let your love
    Be great and firme as his: Then nought shall move
    Your setled faiths, that both may grow together:
    Or if by Fate divided, both may wither.
    Hark! 'twas a groane. Ah how sad absence rends
    His troubled thoughts! See, he from _Marlow_ sends
    His eyes to _Seymors_. Then chides th' envious trees,
    And unkinde distance. Yet his fancie sees
    And courts your beauty, joyes as he had cleav'd
    Close to you, and then weepes because deceiv'd.
    Be constant as y'are faire. For I fore-see
    A glorious triumph waits o'th victorie
    Your love will purchase, shewing us to prize
    A true content. There onely Love hath eyes.


  _To_ Seymors,
  _The house in which_ CASTARA _lived_.

    Blest Temple, haile, where the Chast Altar stands,
    Which Nature built, but the exacter hands
    Of Vertue polisht. Though sad Fate deny
    My prophane feete accesse, my vowes shall flye.
    May those Musitians, which divide the ayre
    With their harmonious breath, their flight prepare,
    For this glad place, and all their accents frame,
    To teach the Eccho my _Castara's_ name.
    The beautious troopes of graces led by love
    In chaste attempts, possesse the neighb'ring grove
    Where may the Spring dwell still. May every tree
    Turne to a Laurell, and propheticke be.
      Which shall in its first Oracle divine,
      That courteous Fate decree _Castara_ mine.


  _To the_ Dew,
  _In hope to see_ CASTARA _walking_.

    Bright Dew which dost the field adorne
    As th' earth to welcome in the morne,
    Would hang a jewell on each corne.

    Did not the pittious night, whose eares
    Have oft beene conscious of my feares
    Distill you from her eyes as teares?

    Or that _Castara_ for your zeale,
    When she her beauties shall reveale,
    Might you to Dyamonds congeale?

    If not your pity, yet how ere
    Your care I praise, 'gainst she appeare,
    To make the wealthy Indies here.

    But see she comes. Bright lampe oth' skie,
    Put out thy light: the world shall spie,
    A fairer Sunne in either eye.

    And liquid Pearle, hang heavie now
    On every grasse that it may bow
    In veneration of her brow.

    Yet if the wind should curious be,
    And were I here, should question thee,
    Hee's full of whispers, speak not me.

    But if the busie tell-tale day,
    Our happy enterview betray;
    Lest thou confesse too, melt away.


  _To_ CASTARA.

    Stay under the kinde shadow of this tree
    _Castara_, and protect thy selfe and me
    From the Sunnes rayes. Which shew the grace of Kings,
    A dangerous warmth with too much favour brings.
    How happy in this shade the humble Vine
    Doth 'bout some taller tree her selfe intwine,
    And so growes fruitefull; teaching us her fate
    Doth beare more sweetes, though Cedars beare more state:
    Behold _Adonis_ in yand' purple flowre,
    T'was _Venus_ love: That dew, the briny showre,
    His coynesse wept, while strugling yet alive:
    Now he repents, and gladly would revive,
      By th' vertue of your chaste and powerfull charmes,
      To play the modest wanton in your armes.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Ventring to walke too farre in the neighbouring wood_.

    Dare not too farre _Castara_, for the shade
    This courteous thicket yeelds, hath man betray'd
    A prey to wolves: to the wilde powers oth' wood,
    Oft travellers pay tribute with their blood.
    If carelesse of thy selfe of me take care,
    For like a ship where all the fortunes are
    Of an advent'rous merchant; I must be,
    If thou should'st perish banquerout in thee.
    My feares have mockt me. Tygers when they shall
    Behold so bright a face, will humbly fall
    In adoration of thee. Fierce they are
    To the deform'd, obsequious to the faire.
      Yet venter not; tis nobler farre to sway
      The heart of man, than beasts, who man obey.


  _Upon_ CASTARA'S _departure_.

    Vowes are vaine. No suppliant breath
    Stayes the speed of swift-heel'd death.
    Life with her is gone and I
    Learne but a new way to dye.
    See the flowers condole, and all
    Wither in my funerall.
    The bright Lilly, as if day,
    Parted with her, fades away.
    Violets hang their heads, and lose
    All their beauty. That the Rose
    A sad part in sorrow beares,
    Witnesse all those dewy teares,
    Which as Pearle, or Dyamond like,
    Swell upon her blushing cheeke.
    All things mourne, but oh behold
    How the wither'd Marigold
    Closeth up now she is gone,
    Judging her the setting Sunne.


  _A Dialogue between_ NIGHT _and_ ARAPHILL.

    NIGHT.  Let silence close my troubled eyes,
              Thy feare in _Lethe_ steepe:
            The starres bright cent'nels of the skies,
              Watch to secure thy sleepe.

    ARAPH.  The Norths unruly spirit lay
              In the disorder'd Seas:
            Make the rude Winter calme as _May_,
              And give a lover ease.

    NIGHT.  Yet why should feare with her pale charmes,
              Bewitch thee so to griefe?
            Since it prevents n' insuing harmes,
              Nor yeelds the past reliefe.

    ARAPH.  And yet such horror I sustaine
              As the sad vessell, when
            Rough tempests have incenst the Maine,
              Her Harbor now in ken.

    NIGHT.  No conquest weares a glorious wreath
              Which dangers not obtaine:
            Let tempests 'gainst thee shipwracke breathe,
              Thou shalt thy harbour gaine.

    ARAPH.  Truths _Delphos_ doth not still foretell,
              Though _Sol_ th' inspirer be.
            How then should night as blind as hell,
              Ensuing truths fore-see?

    NIGHT.  The Sunne yeelds man no constant flame.
              One light those Priests inspires.
            While I though blacke am still the same,
              And have ten thousand fires.

    ARAPH.  But those, sayes my propheticke feare,
              As funerall torches burne;
            While thou thy selfe the blackes dost weare,
              T' attend me to my Urne.

    NIGHT.  Thy feares abuse thee, for those lights
              In _Hymens_ Church shall shine,
            When he by th' mystery of his rites,
              Shall make _Castara_ thine.


  _To the Right Honourable_, _the Lady_, E. P.

    Your judgement's cleere, not wrinckled with the Time,
    On th' humble fate: which censures it a crime,
    To be by vertue ruin'd. For I know
    Y'are not so various as to ebbe and flow
    Ith' streame of fortune, whom each faithlesse winde
    Distracts, and they who made her, fram'd her blinde.
    Possession makes us poore. Should we obtaine
    All those bright jems, for which ith' wealthy Maine,
    The tann'd slave dives; or in one boundlesse chest
    Imprison all the treasures of the West,
    We still should want. Our better part's immence,
    Not like th' inferiour, limited by sence.
    Rich with a little, mutuall love can lift
    Us to a greatnesse, whether chance or thrift
    E're rais'd her servants. For though all were spent,
    That can create an _Europe_ in content.
    Thus (Madam) when _Castara_ lends an eare
    Soft to my hope, I Loves Philosopher,
    Winne on her faith. For when I wondring stand
    At th' intermingled beauty of her hand,
    (Higher I dare not gaze) to this bright veine
    I not ascribe the blood of _Charlemaine_
    Deriv'd by you to her. Or say there are
    In that and th'other _Marmion_, _Rosse_, and _Parr
    Fitzhugh_, _Saint Quintin_, and the rest of them
    That adde such lustre to great _Pembrokes_ stem.
    My love is envious. Would _Castara_ were
    The daughter of some mountaine cottager,
    Who with his toile worne out, could dying leave
    Her no more dowre, than what she did receive
    From bounteous nature. Her would I then lead
    To th' Temple, rich in her owne wealth; her head
    Crown'd with her haires faire treasure; diamonds in
    Her brighter eyes; soft Ermines in her skin;
    Each Indie in each cheeke. Then all who vaunt,
    That fortune, them t' enrich, made others want,
    Should set themselves out glorious in her stealth,
    And trie if that, could parallel this wealth.


  _To_ CASTARA.
  _Departing upon the approach of Night._

    What should we feare _Castara_? The coole aire,
    That's falne in love, and wanton in thy haire,
    Will not betray our whispers. Should I steale
    A Nectar'd kisse, the wind dares not reveale
    The pleasure I possesse. The wind conspires
    To our blest interview, and in our fires
    Bath's like a Salamander, and doth sip,
    Like _Bacchus_ from the grape, life from thy lip.
    Nor thinke of nights approach. The worlds great eye
    Though breaking Natures law, will us supply
    With his still flaming lampe: and to obey
    Our chaste desires, fix here perpetuall day.
      But should he set, what rebell night dares rise,
      To be subdu'd ith' vict'ry of thy eyes?


  _An Apparition._

    More welcome my _Castara_, then was light
    To the disordered Chaos. O what bright
    And nimble chariot brought thee through the aire?
    While the amazed stars to see so faire
    And pure a beauty from the earth arise,
    Chang'd all their glorious bodies into eyes.
    O let my zealous lip print on thy hand
    The story of my love, which there shall stand
    A bright inscription to be read by none,
    But who as I love thee, and love but one.
      Why vanish you away? Or is my sense
    Deluded by my hope? O sweete offence
    Of erring nature! And would heaven this had
    Beene true; or that I thus were ever mad.


  [16]_To the Honourable Mr._ Wm. E.

    Hee who is good is happy. Let the loude
    Artillery of Heaven breake through a cloude
    And dart its thunder at him; hee'le remaine
    Unmov'd, and nobler comfort entertaine
    In welcomming th' approach of death; then vice
    Ere found in her fictitious Paradise.
    Time mocks our youth, and (while we number past
    Delights, and raise our appetite to taste
    Ensuing) brings us to unflattered age.
    Where we are left to satisfie the rage
    Of threatning Death: Pompe, beauty, wealth, and all
    Our friendships, shrinking from the funerall.
    The thought of this begets that brave disdaine
    With which thou view'st the world and makes those vaine
    Treasures of fancy, serious fooles so court,
    And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.
    What should we covet here? Why interpose
    A cloud twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature chose
    Mans soule th' Exchecquer where she'd hoord her wealth,
    And lodge all her rich secrets; but by th' stealth
    Of our owne vanity, w'are left so poore,
    The creature meerely sensuall knowes more.
    The learn'd _Halcyon_ by her wisedome finds
    A gentle season, when the seas and winds
    Are silenc't by a calme, and then brings forth
    The happy miracle of her rare birth,
    Leaving with wonder all our arts possest,
    That view the architecture of her nest.
    Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestowe
    Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow
    By age to dotage: while the sensitive
    Part of the World in it's first strength doth live.
    Folly? what dost thou in thy power containe
    Deserves our study? Merchants plough the maine
    And bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more,
    By avarice in the possession poore.
    And yet that Idoll wealth we all admit
    Into the soules great temple. Busie wit
    Invents new Orgies, fancy frames new rites
    To show it's superstition, anxious nights
    Are watcht to win its favour: while the beast
    Content with Natures courtesie doth rest.
    Let man then boast no more a soule, since he
    Hath lost that great prerogative. But thee
    (Whom Fortune hath exempted from the heard
    Of vulgar men, whom vertue hath prefer'd
    Farre higher than thy birth) I must commend,
    Rich in the purchase of so sweete a friend.
    And though my fate conducts me to the shade
    Of humble quiet, my ambition payde
    With safe content, while a pure Virgin fame
    Doth raise me trophies in _Castara's_ name.
    No thought of glory swelling me above
    The hope of being famed for vertuous love.
    Yet wish I thee, guided by the better starres
    To purchase unsafe honour in the warres
    Or envied smiles at court; for thy great race,
    And merits, well may challenge th' highest place.
    Yet know, what busie path so-ere you tread
    To greatnesse, you must sleepe among the dead.

[16] _To the Honourable my most honoured friend_, Wm. E. _Esquire_.
1635.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _The vanity of Avarice_.

    Harke? how the traytor wind doth court
      The Saylors to the maine;
    To make their avarice his sport?
    A tempest checks the fond disdaine,
    They beare a safe though humble port.

    Wee'le sit my love upon the shore,
      And while proud billowes rise
    To warre against the skie, speake ore
    Our Loves so sacred misteries.
    And charme the Sea to th' calme it had before.

    Where's now my pride t' extend my fame
      Where ever statues are?
    And purchase glory to my name
    In the smooth court or rugged warre?
    My love hath layd the Devill, I am tame.

    I'de rather like the violet grow
      Unmarkt i'th shaded vale,
    Then on the hill those terrors know
    Are breath'd forth by an angry gale,
    There is more pompe above, more sweete below.

    Love, thou divine Philosopher
      (While covetous Landlords rent,
    And Courtiers dignity preferre)
    Instructs us to a sweete content,
    Greatnesse it selfe, doth in it selfe interre.

    _Castara_, what is there above
      The treasures we possesse?
    We two are all and one, wee move
    Like starres in th' orbe of happinesse.
    All blessings are Epitomiz'd in Love.


  _To my most honoured Friend and Kinsman_, R. St., _Esquire_.

    It shall not grieve me (friend) though what I write
    Be held no wit at Court. If I delight
    So farre my sullen Genius, as to raise
    It pleasure; I have money, wine, and bayes
    Enough to crowne me Poet. Let those wits,
    Who teach their Muse the art of Parasits
    To win on easie greatnesse; or the yongue
    Spruce Lawyer who's all impudence and tongue
    Sweat to divulge their fames: thereby the one
    Gets fees; the other hyre, I'me best unknowne:
    Sweet silence I embrace thee, and thee Fate
    Which didst my birth so wisely moderate;
    That I by want am neither vilified,
    Nor yet by riches flatter'd into pride.
    Resolve me friend (for it must folly be
    Or else revenge 'gainst niggard Destinie,
    That makes some Poets raile?) Why are their times
    So steept in gall? Why so obrayde the times?
    As if no sin call'd downe heav'ns vengeance more
    Then cause the world leaves some few writers poore?
    Tis true, that _Chapmans_ reverend ashes must
    Lye rudely mingled with the vulgar dust,
    Cause carefull heyers the wealthy onely have;
    To build a glorious trouble o're the grave.
    Yet doe I not despaire, some one may be
    So seriously devout to Poesie
    As to translate his reliques, and finde roome
    In the warme Church, to build him up a tombe.
    Since _Spencer_ hath a Stone; and _Draytons_ browes
    Stand petrified ith' wall, with Laurell bowes
    Yet girt about; and nigh wise _Henries_ herse,
    Old _Chaucer_ got a Marble for his verse.
    So courteous is Death; Death Poets brings
    So high a pompe, to lodge them with their Kings:
    Yet still they mutiny. If this man please
    His silly Patron with Hyperboles.
    Or most mysterious non-sence, give his braine
    But the strapado in some wanton straine;
    Hee'le sweare the State lookes not on men of parts
    And, if but mention'd, slight all other Arts.
    Vaine ostentation! Let us set so just
    A rate on knowledge, that the world may trust
    The Poets Sentence, and not still aver
    Each Art is to it selfe a flatterer.
    I write to you Sir on this theame, because
    Your soule is cleare, and you observe the lawes,
    Of Poesie so justly, that I chuse
    Yours onely the example to my muse.
    And till my browner haire be mixt with gray
    Without a blush, Ile tread the sportive way,
    My Muse direct; A Poet youth may be,
    But age doth dote without Philosophie.


  _To the World._
  _The Perfection of Love._

    You who are earth, and cannot rise
      Above your sence,
    Boasting the envyed wealth which lyes
    Bright in your Mistris lips or eyes,
    Betray a pittyed eloquence.

    That which doth joyne our soules, so light
      And quicke doth move.
    That like the Eagle in his flight,
    It doth transcend all humane sight,
    Lost in the element of Love.

    You Poets reach not this, who sing
      The praise of dust
    But kneaded, when by theft you bring
    The rose and Lilly from the Spring
    T' adorne the wrinckled face of lust.

    When we speake Love, nor art, nor wit
      We glosse upon:
    Our soules engender, and beget
    _Idaas_, which you counterfeit
    In your dull propagation.

    While Time, seven ages shall disperse,
      Wee'le talke of Love,
    And when our tongues hold no commerse.
    Our thoughts shall mutually converse.
    And yet the blood no rebell prove.

    And though we be of severall kind
      Fit for offence:
    Yet are we so by Love refin'd,
    From impure drosse we are all mind.
    Death could not more have conquer'd sence.

    How suddenly those flames expire
      Which scorch our clay?
    _Prometheas_-like when we steale fire
    From heaven 'tis endlesse and intire
    It may know age, but not decay.


  _To the_ Winter.

    Why dost thou looke so pale, decrepit man?
    Why doe thy cheeks curle like the Ocean,
    Into such furrowes? Why dost thou appeare
    So shaking, like an ague to the yeare?
    The Sunne is gone. But yet _Castara_ stayes,
    And will adde stature to thy Pigmy dayes,
    Warme moysture to thy veynes: her smile can bring
    Thee the sweet youth, and beauty of the Spring.
    Hence with thy palsie then, and on thy head
    Weare flowrie chaplets as a bridegroome led
    To th' holy Fane. Banish thy aged ruth,
    That Virgins may admire and court thy youth.
      And the approaching Sunne when she shall finde
      A Spring without him, fall, since uselesse, blinde.


  _Upon a visit to_ CASTARA _in the Night_.

    T'was Night: when _Phœbe_ guided by thy rayes,
    Chaste as my zeale, with incence of her praise,
    I humbly crept to my _Castara's_ shrine.
    But oh my fond mistake! for there did shine
    A noone of beauty, with such lustre crown'd,
    As shewd '<DW41> th' impious onely night is found.
    It was her eyes which like two Diamonds shin'd,
    Brightest ith' dark. Like which could th' Indian find,
    But one among his rocks, he would out vie
    In brightnesse all the Diamonds of the Skie.
    But when her lips did ope, the Phœnix nest
    Breath'd forth her odours; where might _Jove_ once feast,
    Hee'd loath his heavenly surfets: if we dare
    Affirme, _Jove_ hath a heaven without my faire.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Of the chastity of his Love_.

    Why would you blush _Castara_, when the name
    Of love you heare? Who never felt his flame,
    Ith' shade of melancholly night doth stray,
    A blind Cymmerian banisht from the day.
    Let's chastly love _Castara_, and not soyle
    This Virgin lampe, by powring in the oyle
    Of impure thoughts. O let us sympathize,
    And onely talke ith' language of our eyes,
    Like two starres in conjunction. But beware
    Lest th' Angels who of love compacted are,
    Viewing how chastly burnes thy zealous fire,
    Should snatch thee hence, to joyne thee to their quire.
    Yet take thy flight: on earth for surely we
    So joyn'd, in heaven cannot divided be.


  _The Description of_ CASTARA.

    Like the Violet which alone
    Prospers in some happy shade;
    My _Castara_ lives unknowne,
    To no looser eye betray'd.
      For shee's to her selfe untrue,
      Who delights ith' publicke view.

    Such is her beauty, as no arts
    Have enricht with borrowed grace.
    Her high birth no pride imparts,
    For she blushes in her place.
      Folly boasts a glorious blood,
      She is noblest being good.

    Cautious she knew never yet
    What a wanton courtship meant:
    Not speaks loud to boast her wit,
    In her silence eloquent.
      Of her selfe survey she takes,
      But 'tweene men no difference makes.

    She obeyes with speedy will
    Her grave Parents wise commands.
    And so innocent, that ill,
    She nor acts, nor understands.
      Womens feete runne still astray.
      If once to ill they know the way.

    She sailes by that rocke, the Court,
    Where oft honour splits her mast:
    And retir'dnesse thinks the port,
    Where her fame may anchor cast.
      Vertue safely cannot sit,
      Where vice is enthron'd for wit.

    She holds that dayes pleasure best.
    Where sinne waits not on delight.
    Without maske, or ball, or feast,
    Sweetly spends a winters night.
      O're that darknesse, whence is thrust,
      Prayer and sleepe oft governs lust.

    She her throne makes reason climbe,
    While wild passions captive lie.
    And each article of time,
    Her pure thoughts to heaven flie:
      All her vowes religious be,
      And her love she vowes to me.

  _FINIS._




[Illustration]

CASTARA

  The Second part.

  _Vatumque lascivos triumphos,
  Calcat Amor, pede conjugali._

  [Illustration]

  _LONDON_
  Printed for WILLIAM COOKE
  and are to be sold at his Shop,
  neare _Furnivals-Inne_ Gate
  in _Holborne_. 1639.




A Wife


_Is the sweetest part in the harmony of our being. To the love of
which, as the charmes of Nature inchant us, so the law of grace by
speciall priviledge invites us. Without her, Man if piety not restraine
him; is the creator of sinne; or, if an innated cold render him not
onely the businesse of the present age; the murderer of posterity.
She is so religious that every day crownes her a martyr, and her
zeale neither rebellious nor uncivill. Shee is so true a friend, her
Husband may to her communicate even his ambitions, and if successe
Crowne not expectation, remaine neverthelesse uncontemned. Shee is
colleague with him in the Empire of prosperity; and a safe retyring
place when adversity exiles him from the World. She is so chaste,
she never understood the language lust speakes in, nor with a smile
applaudes it, although there appeare wit in the Metaphore. Shee is
faire only to winne on his affections, nor would she be Mistris of the
most eloquent beauty; if there were danger, that might perswade the
passionate auditory, to the least irregular thought. Shee is noble
by a long descent, but her memory is so evill a herald, shee never
boasts the story of her Ancestors. Shee is so moderately rich, that
the defect of portion doth neither bring penury to his estate, nor the
superfluity licence her to Riot. Shee is liberall, and yet owes not
ruine to vanity, but knows Charity, to be the soule of goodnesse,
and Vertue without reward often prone to bee her own destroyer. Shee
is much at home, and when she visites 'tis for mutuall commerce, not
for intelligence. Shee can goe to Court, and returne no passionate
doater on bravery; and when shee hath seene the gay things muster up
themselves there, she considers them as Cobwebs the Spider vanity hath
spunne. Shee is so generall in her acquaintance, that shee is familiar
with all whom fame speakes vertuous; but thinkes there can bee no
friendship but with one; and therefore hath neither shee friend nor
private servant. Shee so squares her passion to her Husbands fortunes,
that in the Countrey shee lives without a froward Melancholly, in the
town without a fantastique pride. She is so temperate, she never read
the modern pollicie of glorious surfeits; since she finds Nature is no
Epicure if art provoke her not by curiositie. Shee is inquisitive onely
of new wayes to please him, and her wit sayles by no other compasse
then that of his direction. Shee lookes upon him as Conjurers upon the
Circle, beyond which there is nothing but Death and Hell; and in him
shee beleeves Paradice circumscrib'd. His vertues are her wonder and
imitation; and his errors, her credulitie thinkes no more frailtie,
then makes him descend to the title of Man. In a word, shee so lives
that she may dye; and leave no cloude upon her Memory, but have her
character nobly mentioned: while the bad Wife is flattered into infamy,
and buyes pleasure at too[17] deare a rate, if shee onely payes for it
Repentance._

[17] _so._ 1635.




_Fifty Poems, chiefly on Wedded Happiness._


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Now possest of her in marriage_.

    This day is ours. The marriage Angell now
    Sees th' Altar in the odour of our vow,
    Yeeld a more precious breath, then that which moves
    The whispring leaves in the _Panchayan_ groves.
    View how his temples shine, on which he weares
    A wreath of pearle, made of those precious teares
    Thou wept a Virgin, when crosse winds did blow,
    Our hopes disturbing in their quiet flow.
    But now _Castara_ smile, No envious night
    Dares enterpose it selfe, t'ecclipse the light
    Of our cleare joyes. For even the lawes divine
    Permit our mutuall love[18] so to entwine,
    That Kings, to ballance true content, shall say:
    Would they were great as we, we blest as they.

[18] loves. 1634.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Upon the mutuall love of their Majesties_.

    Did you not see, _Castara_, when the King
    Met his lov'd Queene; what sweetnesse she did bring
    T' incounter his brave heat; how great a flame
    From their brests meeting, on the sudden came?
    The Stoike, who all easie passion flies,
    Could he but heare the language of their eyes,
    As heresies would from his faith remove
    The tenets of his sect, and practise love.
    The barb'rous nations which supply the earth
    With a promiscuous and ignoble birth,
    Would by his precedent correct their life,
    Each wisely chuse, and chastely love a wife.
      [19]Princes example is a law. Then we
      If loyall subjects, must true lovers be.

[19] Princes examples are a law. Then we. 1634.


  _To_ ZEPHIRUS.

    Whose whispers soft as those which lovers breath
    _Castara_ and my selfe I here bequeath
    To the calme wind. For heaven such joyes afford
    To her and me, that there can be no third.
    And you kinde starres, be thriftier of your light:
    Her eyes supply your office with more bright
    And constant lustre. Angels guardians, like
    The nimbler ship boyes shall be joy'd to strike
    Or hoist up saile; Nor shall our vessell move
    By Card or Compasse, but a heavenly love.
    The courtesie of this more prosperous gale
    Shall swell our Canvas, and wee'le swiftly saile
    To some blest Port, where ship hath never lane
    At anchor, whose chaste soule no foot prophane
    Hath ever trod; Where nature doth dispence
    Her infant wealth, a beautious innocence.
    Pompe (even a burthen to it selfe) nor Pride,
    (The Magistrate of sinnes) did e're abide
    On that so sacred earth. Ambition ne're,
    Built for the sport of ruine, fabrickes there.
    Thence age and death are exil'd, all offence
    And feare expell'd, all noyse and faction thence.
    A silence there so melancholly sweet,
    That none but whispring Turtles ever meet.
    Thus Paradise did our first Parents wooe,
    To harmelesse 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 feare,
    Would be depraved, should but a third be there.


  _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 shal sleep,
    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.
      While Love the Pilot, steeres his course so even,
      Ne're to cast anchor till we reach at Heaven.


  _To_ DEATH,
  CASTARA _being sicke_.

    Hence prophane grim man, nor dare
    To approach 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 it needs 'mongst us thou'lt rage,
    Let thy fury feed on age.
    Wrinckled 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, learne 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.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _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.
    Rest in thy peace secure. With drowsie charmes,
    Kinde sleepe bewitcheth thee into her armes;
    And finding where Loves chiefest treasure lies,
    Is like a theefe stole under thy bright eyes.
    Thy innocence rich as the gaudy quilt
    Wrought by the Persian hand, thy dreames from guilt
    Exempted, heaven with sweete repose doth crowne
    Each vertue, softer then the Swans fam'd downe.
      As exorcists wild spirits mildly lay,
      May sleepe thy fever calmely chase away.


  _Upon_ CASTARA'S _recoverie_.

    She is restor'd to life. Unthrifty Death,
    Thy mercie in permitting vitall breath
    Backe to _Castara_, hath enlarg'd us all,
    Whome 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 generall 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 _Shakespeares_ 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'ar not within.
      The least of these, will make me only 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 _Sals'burg_ casements throw,
    Or buy up for the silenc'd Levits, all
    The rich impropriations, then 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 saintly sing
    A Penitential verse in oyle and Ling.
    Come then, and bring with you prepar'd for fight,
    Unmixt 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 mans 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,
    Upon the trepidation 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 ith' grace
    Love they to wanton of a brighter face,
    For th'are above Times battery; and the light
    Of beauty, ages cloud will soone be night.
      If among these Content, he thus doth prove,
      Hath no abode; where dwels 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 then you;
    See how by their weake influence they,
    The strongest of mens actions sway.
    In an inferiour orbe below,
    Wee'le see _Calisto_ loosely throw
    Her haire abroad: as she did weare,
    The self-same beauty in a Beare,
    As when she a cold Virgin stood,
    And yet inflam'd _Joves_ 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 _Jove_;
    Why should not we, by purer love?


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Upon the death of a Lady_.

    _Castara_ weepe not, though 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[20] ne're returne againe.
    Nor grieve this Christall streame so soone did fall
    Into the Ocean; since she 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 heavens compassion gave her; And since she
    Cause cloath'd in purple can no mourner be,
    As incense to the tombe she gives her breath,
    And fading, on her Lady waits in death.
    Such office the Ægyptian handmaids did
    Great _Cleopatra_, when she dying chid
    The Asps slow venome, 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 beauties funerall,
    And with her, to increase deaths pompe, decay.
    Since the supporting fabricke of your clay
    Is faine, how can ye stand? How can the night
    Shew stars, when Fate puts out the dayes great light?
    But '<DW41> the faire, if there live any yet,
    She's but the fairer _Digbies_ 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 _Digbies_ 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
    (Though flattering like friends) your treasures are,
    Her Fate hath taught[21]: 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 sweetely 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.

[20] we. 1634.

[21] Her Fate hath taught you: who, when what ever rare. 1634, 1635.


  _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 funerall teares: which heaven 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 lives story, ring but my owne knell.
      But when I shall returne, know 'tis thy breath
      In sighes divided, rescues me from death.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Weeping_.

    _Castara!_ O you are too prodigall
    Oth' 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,
    '<DW41> 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 roote out abuse,
    Would ruine vitious earth; be then profuse.
      Light, chas'd rude chaos from the world before,
      Thy teares, by hindring it's returne, worke more.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Upon 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 Phœnix-like his funerall fires.
    The winds of Paradice send such a gale,
    To make the Lovers vessels 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:
    Who are the soule of women. Others be
    But beauteous parts oth' 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
    Unto your sex, that now even customes 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 wisedome 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 gives 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 compell
    Him into various formes? Nor serves their charme
    Themselves to good, but to worke others harme.
    Tyrant Opinion but depose. And we
    Will absolute ith' happiest Empire be.


  _To_ CASTARA.
  _Upon 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 Phrigian marble, which shall build
    A burthen to our ashes, yet will death
    Betray them to the sport of every breath.
    Dost thou, poor 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 beauty'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 speakes loud.
      And though wild rockes about the shore appeare
      Yet vertue will finde roome to anchor there.


  _A Dialogue betweene_
  ARAPHILL _and_ CASTARA.

    ARAPH. _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 rowse sleepy warre.

    CAST.  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?

    ARAPH. If Fate like an unfaithfull gale,
             Which having vow'd to th' ship a faire event,
           Oth' sudden rends her hopefull saile;
             Blow ruine; will _Castara_ then repent?

    CAST.  Love shall in that tempestuous showre
             Her brightest blossome like the blacke-thorne show:
           Weake friendship prospers by the powre
             Of fortunes Sunne. I'le in her winter grow.

    ARAPH. If on my skin the noysome skar
             I should oth'leprosie, or canker weare;
           Or if the sulph'rous breath of warre
             Should blast my youth; Should I not be thy feare?

    CAST.  In flesh may sicknesse horror move,
             But heavenly zeale will be by it refin'd,
           For then wee'd like two Angels love,
             Without a sense; imbrace[22] each others mind.

    ARAPH. 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, disjoyn'd by death.

    CAST.  That's no divource. Then shall we see
             The rites in life, were types o'th marriage state,
           Our soules on earth contracted be;
             But they in heaven their nuptials consumate.

[22] Without a sense; and clip each others mind. 1634, 1635.


  [23]_To the Right Honourable_ HENRY _Lord_ M.

  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 harmelesse. For obedience
    If frailty yeelds to the wild lawes of sence;
    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_, _Stanley_, and '_La Pole_ doth flow
    With happy _Brandon's_ in your veines; you owe
    Your vertue not to them. Man builds alone
    Oth' ground of honour: For desert's our owne.
    Be that your ayme. I'le with _Castara_ sit
    Ith' shade, from heat of businesse. While my wit
    Is neither big with an ambitious ayme,
    To build tall Pyramids Ith' court of fame,
    For after ages, or to win conceit
    Oth' present, and grow in opinion great.
    Rich in our selves, we envy not the East,
    Her rockes of Diamonds, or her gold the West.
    _Arabia_ may be happy in the death
    Of her reviving _Phœnix_; In the breath
    Of coole _Favonius_, famous be the grove
    Of _Tempe_; while we in each others 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 warm zeale approach our Urne, to pay
    Their vowes, that heaven should blesse so farre their rites,
    To shew them the faire paths to our delights.

[23] _To the Right Honourable, my very good Lord_ HENRY _Lord_ M.


  _To a Tombe._

    Tyrant o're tyrants, thou who onely dost
    Clip the lascivious beauty without lust;
    What horror at thy sight shootes through 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 strewd upon a grave.
    Thou tell'st the rich, their Idoll is but earth.
    The vainely pleas'd, that Syren-like their mirth
    Betrayes 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?


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Upon thought of Age and Death_.

    The breath of time shall blast the flowry 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 eternall night.
    Some melancholly chamber of the earth,
    [24](For that like Time devoures 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 formall 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 hadst reviv'd, to triumph o're thy hearse.

[24] (For she like Time devoures whom she gave breath)


  [25]_To the Right Honourable, the Lord_ P.

  My Lord.

    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 happinesse
    To mutuall love; if you'le the omen blesse.
    Nor 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.
    Nor thinke in her I courted wealth or blood,
    Or more uncertaine 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 Consull; 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
    Though 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 powre subdu'd, To me
    Ther's nought beyond this. The whole world is she.

[25] _To the Right Honorable, my very good Lord, the Lord_ P. 1634,
1635.


  _His Muse speakes to him._

    Thy vowes are heard, and thy _Castara's_ name
    Is writ as faire ith' Register of Fame,
    As th' ancient beauties which translated are
    By Poets up to heaven; each there a starre.
    And though Imperiall _Tiber_ boast alone
    _Ovids Corinna_, and to _Arn_ is knowne
    But _Petrarchs Laura_; while our famous Thames
    Doth murmur _Sydneyes 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 Sov'raigne of those waters be.
      Dead in loves firmament, no starre shall shine
      So nobly faire, so purely chaste as thine.


  _To Vaine hope._

    Thou dreame of madmen, ever changing gale,
    Swell with thy wanton breath the gaudy saile
    Of glorious fooles. Thou guid'st them who thee court
    To rocks, to quick-sands, or some faithlesse port.
    Were I not mad, who when secure at ease,
    I might ith' Cabbin passe the raging Seas,
    Would like a franticke shipboy 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
    T' embrace[26] the shadowes of true blisse? And when
    My Paradise all flowers and fruits both breed:
    To rob a barren garden for a weed?

[26] clip. 1634, 1635.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _How happy, though in an obscure fortune_.

    Were we by fate throwne downe below our feare;
    Could we be poore? Or question Natures care
    In our provision? She who doth afford
    A feather'd garment fit for every bird,
    And onely voyce enough t'expresse delight.
    She who apparels Lillies in their white,
    As if in that she'de teach mans duller sence,
    Wh'are highest, should be so in innocence.
    She who in damaske doth attire the Rose,
    (And man t'himselfe a mockery to propose,
    '<DW41> whom the humblest Judges grow to fit)
    She who in purple cloathes the Violet:
      If thus she cares for things even voyd of sence;
      Shall we suspect in us her providence?


  _To_ CASTARA.

    What can the freedome of our love enthrall?
    _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 himselfe's a world. If we should have
    A mansion but in some forsaken cave;
    Wee'd smooth misfortune: and our selves thinke then
    Retir'd like Princes from the noise of men,
    To breath a while unflatter'd. Each wild beast,
    That should the silence of our cell infest,
    With clamor, seeking prey; Wee'd fancie were
    Nought but an avaritious Courtier.
      Wealth's but opinion. Who thinks others more
      Of treasures have, than we, is[27] onely poore.

[27] he's. 1634.


  _On the death of the Right Honourable_, GEORGE _Earle of S._

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

[28] his. 1634, 1635.

[29] wit. 1634.


  _To my worthy Cousin_ Mr. E. C.
  _In praise of the City life, in the long Vacation._

    I Like the greene plush which your meadows weare;
    I praise your pregnant fields, which duly beare
    Their wealthy burden to th'industrious Bore.
    Nor doe I disallow that who are poore
    In minde and fortune, thither should retire:
    But hate that he who's warme with [30]holy fire
    Of any knowledge, and '<DW41>-us may feast
    On Nectar'd wit, should turne himselfe t' a beast,
    And graze ith' Country. Why did nature wrong
    So much her paines, as to give you a tongue
    And fluent language; If converse you hold
    With Oxen in the stall, and sheep ith' fold?
    But now it's long Vacation you will say
    The towne is empty, and who ever may
    To th' pleasure of his Country home repaire,
    Flyes from th' infection of our _London_ aire.
    In this your errour. Now's the time alone
    To live here; when the City Dame is gone,
    T' her house at _Brandford_; for beyond that she
    Imagines there's no land, but _Barbary_,
    Where lies her husbands Factor. When from hence
    Rid is the Country Justice whose non-sence
    Corrupted had the language of the Inne,
    Where he and his horse litter'd: We beginne
    To live in silence, when the noyse oth' Bench
    Not deafens _Westminster_, nor corrupt French
    Walkes _Fleet-street_ in her gowne. Ruffes of the Barre,
    By the Vacations powre translated are,
    To Cut-worke bands. And who were busie here,
    Are gone to sow sedition in the shire.
    The aire by this is purg'd, and the Termes strife,
    Thus fled the City: we the civill life
    Lead happily. When in the gentle way,
    Of noble mirth, I have the long liv'd day,
    Contracted to a moment: I retire.
    To my _Castara_, and meet such a fire
    Of mutuall love: that if the City were
    Infected, that would purifie the ayre.

[30] th' holy fire. 1634.


  _Loves Aniversarie
  To the Sunne._

    Thou art return'd (great Light) to that blest houre
    In which I first by marriage, sacred power,
    Joyn'd with _Castara_ hearts: And as the same
    Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame:
    Which had increast, but that by loves decree,
    'Twas such at first, it ne're could greater be.
    But tell me (glorious Lampe) in thy survey,
    Of things below thee, what did not decay
    By age to weaknesse? I since that have seene
    The Rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow greene
    And wither, and the beauty of the field
    With Winter wrinkled. Even thy selfe dost yeeld
      Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher.
      But vertuous love is one sweet endlesse fire.


  _Against them who lay unchastity to the sex of Women._

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

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

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

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


  _To the Right Honourable and excellently learned_,
  WILLIAM _Earle of_ St.

  My Lord,

    The Laurell doth your reverend temples wreath
    As aptly now, as when your youth did breath
    Those tragicke raptures which your name shall save
    From the blacke edict of a tyrant grave.
    Nor shall your Day ere set, till the Sunne shall
    From the blind heavens like a cynder fall;
    And all the elements intend their strife,
    To ruine what they fram'd: Then your fames life,
    When desp'rate Time lies gasping, shall expire
    Attended by the world ith' generall fire.
    Fame lengthens thus her selfe. And I to tread
    Your steps to glory, search among the dead,
    Where Vertue lies obscur'd; that as I give
    Life to her tombe, I spight of time may live.
    Now I resolve in triumph of my verse,
    To bring great _Talbot_ from that forren hearse,
    Which yet doth to her fright his dust enclose:
    Then to sing _Herbert_ who so glorious rose,
    With the fourth _Edward_, that his faith doth shine
    Yet in the faith of noblest _Pembrookes_ line.
    Sometimes my swelling spirits I prepare
    To speake the mighty _Percy_, neerest heire,
    In merits as in blood, to CHARLES the great:
    Then _Darbies_ worth and greatnesse to repeat:
    Or _Morleyes_ honour, or _Mounteagles_ fame,
    Whose valour lies eterniz'd in his name.
    But while I thinke to sing those of my bloud,
    And my _Castara's_; Loves unruly flood
    Breakes in, and beares away what ever stands,
    Built by my busie fancy on the sands.


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Upon an embrace_.

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

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

      If not prophane; we'll say
    When Angels close, their joyes are such.
      For we not love obey
    That's bastard to a fleshly touch.
      Let's close _Castara_ then, since thus
      We patterne Angels, and they us.


  _To the Honourable_, G. T.

    Let not thy grones force Eccho from her cave,
    Or interrupt her weeping o're that wave,
    Which last _Narcissus_ kist: let no darke grove
    Be taught to whisper stories of thy love.
    What though the wind be turn'd? Canst thou not saile
    By vertue of a cleane contrary gale,
    Into some other Port? Where thou wilt find,
    It was thy better _Genius_ chang'd the wind,
    To steere thee to some Iland in the West,
    For wealth and pleasure, that transcends thy East.
    Though _Astrodora_, like a sullen starre
    Eclipse her selfe: Ith' sky of beauty are
    Ten thousand other fires, some bright as she.
    And who with milder beames, may shine on thee.
    Nor yet doth this Eclipse beare a portent,
    That should affright the world: The firmament
    Enjoyes the light it did, a Sunne as cleare,
    And the young Spring doth like a Bride appeare,
    As fairely wed to the _Thessalian_ grove
    As e're it was; though she and you not love.
    And we two, who like two bright stars have shin'd
    Ith' heaven of friendship, are as firmely joyn'd
    As bloud and love first fram'd us. And to be
    Lov'd, and thought worthy to be lov'd by thee,
    Is to be glorious. Since fame cannot lend
    An honour, equals that of _Talbots_ friend.
    Nor envie me that my _Castara's_ flame
    Yeelds me a constant warmth: Though first I came
    To marriage happy Ilands: Seas to thee
    Will yeeld as smooth a way, and winds as free.
    Which shall conduct thee (if hope may divine;)
    To this delicious port: and make love thine.


  _To_ CASTARA.
  _The reward of Innocent Love._

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

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

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

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

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

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


  _To my noble Friend, Sir_ I. P. _Knight_.

  Sir,

    Though my deare _Talbots_ Fate exact, a sad
    And heavy brow; my verse shall not be clad
    For him this houre in mourning: I will write
    To you the glory of a pompous night,
    Which none (except sobriety) who wit
    Or cloathes could boast, but freely did admit.
    I (who still sinne for company) was there
    And tasted of the glorious supper, where
    Meate was the least of wonder. Though the nest
    Oth' _Phœnix_ rifled seem'd t'amaze the feast,
    And th' Ocean left so poore that it alone
    Could since vant wretched herring and poore John.
    _Lucullus_ surfets, were but types of this,
    And whatsoever riot mention'd is
    In story, did but the dull _Zanye_ play,
    To this proud night; which rather wee'le terme day:
    For th'artificiall lights so thicke were set,
    That bright Sun seem'd this to counterfeit
    But seven (whom whether we should Sages call
    Or deadly sinnes, Ile not dispute) were all
    Invited to this pompe. And yet I dare
    Pawne my lov'd Muse, th' _Hungarian_ did prepare
    Not halfe that quantity of victuall, when
    He layd his happy siege to _Nortlinghen_.
    The mist of the perfumes was breath'd so thicke
    That _Linx_ himselfe thought his sight fam'd so quicke,
    Had there scarce spyed one sober: For the wealth
    Of the _Canaries_ was exhaust, the health
    Of his good Majestye to celebrate,
    Who'le judge them loyall subjects without that:
    Yet they, who some fond privilege to mainteine,
    Would have rebeld; their best freehold, their braine
    Surrender'd there; and five fifteenes did pay
    To drink his happy life and reigne. O day
    It was thy piety to flye; th' hadst beene
    Found accessary else to this fond sinne.
    But I forget to speake each stratagem
    By which the dishes enter'd, and in them
    Each luscious miracle, As if more bookes
    Had written beene oth' mystery of Cookes
    Then the Philos'phers stone, here we did see
    All wonders in the kitchin Alchimy:
    But Ile not have you there, before you part
    You shall have something of another art.
    A banquet raining downe so fast, the good
    Old Patriarch would have thought a generall flood:
    Heaven open'd and from thence a mighty showre
    Of Amber comfits it sweete selfe did powre
    Upon our heads, and Suckets from our eye
    Like thickend clouds did steale away the sky,
    That it was question'd whether heaven were
    _Black-fryers_, and each starre a confectioner;
    But I too long detaine you at a feast
    You hap'ly surfet of; now every guest
    Is reeld downe to his coach; I licence crave
    Sir, but to kisse your hands, and take my leave.


  _To The Right Honourable_ Archibald _Earle of_ Ar.

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


  _An Elegy upon The Honourable_ Henry Cambell,
  _sonne to the Earle of_ Arg.

    Its false Arithmaticke to say thy breath
    Expir'd to soone, or irreligious death
    Prophan'd thy holy youth. For if thy yeares
    Be number'd by thy vertues or our teares,
    Thou didst the old _Methusalem_ out-live.
    Though Time, but twenty yeares account can give
    Of thy abode on earth, yet every houre
    Of thy brave youth by vertues wondrous powre
    Was lengthen'd to a yeare. Each well-spent day
    Keepes young the body, but the soule makes gray.
    Such miracles workes goodnesse: and behind
    Th'ast left to us such stories of thy minde
    Fit for example; that when them we read,
    We envy earth the treasure of the dead.
    Why doe the sinfull riot and survive
    The feavers of their surfets? Why alive
    Is yet disorder'd greatnesse, and all they
    Who the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey?
    Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the night
    With cheats and imprecations? Why is light
    Looked on by those whose breath may poyson it:
    Who sold the vigor of their strength and wit
    To buy diseases: and thou, who faire truth
    And vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth?
      But Ile not question fate. Heaven doth conveigh
    Those first from the darke prison of their clay
    Who are most fit for heaven. Thou in warre
    Hadst tane degrees, those dangers felt, which are
    The props on which peace safely doth subsist
    And through the Cannons blew and horrid mist
    Hadst brought her light: And now wert so compleat
    That naught but death did want to make thee great.
      Thy death was timely then bright soule to thee,
    And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not. 'Twas we
    Who dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increase
    Of reall glory both in warre and peace,
    We all did share: and thou away we feare
    Didst with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare.
      Each then be his owne mourner, Wee'le to thee
    Write hymnes, upon the world an Elegie.


  _To_ CASTARA.

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


  _To_ CASTARA,
  _Of what we were before our creation_.

    When _Pelion_ wondring saw, that raine which fell
    But now from angry Heaven, to Heaven ward swell:
    When th' Indian Ocean did the wanton play,
    Mingling its billowes with the Balticke sea:
    And the whole earth was water: O where then
    Were we _Castara_? In the fate of men
    Lost underneath the waves? Or to beguile
    Heaven's justice, lurkt we in _Noahs_ floating Isle?
    We had no being then. This fleshly frame
    Wed to a soule, long after, hither came
    A stranger to it selfe. Those moneths that were
    But the last age, no news of us did heare.
      What pompe is then in us? Who th' other day
      Were nothing; and in triumph now, but clay.


  _To the Moment last past._

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


  _To_ CASTARA.
  _Of the knowledge of Love._

    Where sleepes the North-wind when the South inspires
    Life in the spring, and gathers into quires
    The scatter'd Nightingales; whose subtle eares
    Heard first th' harmonious language of the Spheares;
    Whence hath the stone Magneticke force t'allure
    Th' enamour'd iron; From a seed impure
    Or naturall did first the Mandrake grow;
    What powre ith' Ocean makes it ebbe and flow;
    What strange materials is the azure skye
    Compacted of; of what its[31] brightest eye
    The ever flaming Sunne; what people are
    In th'unknowne world; what worlds in every star;
    Let curious fancies at this secret rove;
    _Castara_ what we know, wee'le practise, Love.

[31] her. 1635.


  [32]_To the Right Honourable the Countesse of_ C.

  Madam,

    Should the cold _Muscovit_, whose furre and stove
    Can scarse prepare him heate enough for love,
    But view the wonder of your presence, he
    Would scorne his winters sharpest injury:
    And trace the naked groves, till he found bayse
    To write the beautious triumphs of your prayse.
    As a dull Poet even he would say,
    Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them day
    Till that bright minute; that he now admires
    No more why the coy Spring so soone retires
    From their unhappy clyme: It doth pursue
    The Sun, and he derives his light from you.
    Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick Sea
    Is set at freedome, while the yce away
    Doth melt at your approach; how by so faire
    Harmonious beauty, their rude manners are
    Reduc't to order; how to them you bring
    The wealthiest mines below, above the Spring.
    Thus would his wonder speake. For he would want
    Religion to beleeve, there were a Saint
    Within, and all he saw was but the shrine.
    But I here pay my vowes to the devine
    Pure essence there inclos'd, which if it were
    Not hid in a faire cloud but might appeare
    In its full lustre, would make Nature live
    In a state equall to her primitive.
    But sweetly thats obscur'd. Yet though our eye
    Cannot the splendor of your soule descry
    In true perfection, by a glimmering light,
    Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how bright
    The Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkind
    Eclipse, or else our selves for being blinde.
    How hastily doth Nature build up man
    To leave him so imperfect? For he can
    See nought beyond his sence; she doth controule
    So farre his sight, he nere discern'd a soule.
    For had yours beene the object of his eye;
    It had turn'd wonder to Idolatry.

[32] _To the Right Honourable, my very good Lady, the Countesse of_ C.
1635.


  _The harmony of Love._

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

    Harke! when _Castara's_ orbs doe move
      By my first moving eyes,
    How great the Symphony of Love,
      But 'tis the destinies
    Will not so farre my prayer approve,
      To bring you hither, here
    Lest you meete heaven, for Elizium there.

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


  _To my honoured friend Sir_ ED. P. _Knight_.

    You'd leave the silence in which safe we are,
      To listen to the noyse of warre;
    And walke those rugged paths, the factious tread,
      Who by the number of the dead
    Reckon their glories, and thinke greatnesse stood
      Unsafe, till it was built on blood.
    Secure ith' wall our Seas and ships provide
      (Abhorring wars so barb'rous pride
    And honour bought with slaughter) in content
      Lets breath though humble, innocent.
    Folly and madnesse! Since 'tis ods we nere
      See the fresh youth of the next yeare.
    Perhaps not the chast morne, her selfe disclose
      Againe, t'out-blush th' æmulous rose,
    Why doth ambition so the mind distresse
      To make us scorne what we possesse?
    And looke so farre before us? Since all we
      Can hope, is varied misery?
    Goe find some whispering shade neare _Arne_ or _Poe_,
      And gently '<DW41> their violets throw
    Your wearyed limbs, and see if all those faire
      Enchantments can charme griefe or care?
    Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when you
      The ruin'd Capitoll shall view
    And statues, a disorder'd heape; you can
      Not cure yet the disease of man,
    And banish your owne thoughts. Goe travaile where
      Another Sun and Starres appeare,
    And land not toucht by any covetous fleet,
      And yet even there your selfe you'le meet.
    Stay here then, and while curious exiles find
      New toyes for a fantastique mind;
    Enjoy at home what's reall: here the Spring
      By her aeriall quires doth sing
    As sweetly to you, as if you were laid
      Under the learn'd _Thessalian_ shade,
    Direct your eye-sight inward, and you'le find
      A thousand regions in your mind
    Yet undiscover'd. Travell them, and be
      Expert in home Cosmographie.
    This you may doe safe both from rocke and shelfe:
      Man's a whole world within him selfe.


  _To_ CASTARA.

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

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

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


  _To_ CASTARA.
  _Of true delight._

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

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

    Be curious in pursuite of eyes
    To procreate new loves with thine;
    Satiety makes sence despise
    What superstition thought divine.

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

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

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

    But winter comes and makes each flowre
    Shrinke from the pillow where it growes,
    Or an intruding cold hath powre
    To scorne the perfume of the Rose.

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

[33] chaste. 1635.


  _To my noblest Friend, I. C. Esquire._

  Sir,

    I hate the Countries durt and manners, yet
    I love the silence; I embrace the wit
    And courtship, flowing here in a full tide.
    But loathe the expence, the vanity, and pride.
    No place each way is happy. Here I hold
    Commerce with some, who to my eare unfold
    (After a due oath ministred) the height
    And greatnesse of each star shines in the state:
    The brightnesse, the eclypse, the influence.
    With others I commune, who tell me whence
    The torrent doth of forraigne discord flow:
    Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,
    Soone as they happen; and by rote can tell
    Those _Germane_ townes, even puzzle me to spell.
    The crosse or prosperous fate of Princes, they
    Ascribe to rashnesse, cunning, or delay:
    And on each action comment, with more skill
    Then upon _Livy_, did old _Machavill_.
    O busie folly! Why doe I my braine
    Perplex with the dull pollicies of _Spaine_,
    Or quicke designes of _France_? Why not repaire
    To the pure innocence oth' Country ayre:
    And neighbor thee, deare friend? Who so dost give
    Thy thoughts to worth and vertue, that to live
    Blest, is to trace thy wayes. There might not we
    Arme against passion with Philosophie;
    And by the aide of leisure, so controule,
    What-ere is earth in us, to grow all soule?
    Knowledge doth ignorance ingender when
    We study misteries of other men
    And forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade
    (Thy head upon some flowry pillow laide,
    Kind Natures huswifery) contemplate all
    His stratagems who labours to inthrall
    The world to his great Master; and youle finde
    Ambition mocks it selfe, and grasps the wind.
    Not conquest makes us great. Blood is to deare
    A price for glory: Honour doth appeare
    To statesmen like a vision in the night,
    And jugler-like workes oth' deluded sight.
    Th' unbusied onely wise: For no respect
    Indangers them to error; They affect
    Truth in her naked beauty, and behold
    Man with an equall eye, not bright in gold
    Or tall in title; so much him they weigh
    As Vertue raiseth him above his clay.
    Thus let us value things: And since we find
    Time bends us toward death, lets in our mind
    Create new youth; and arme against the rude
    Assaults of age; that no dull solitude
    Oth' country dead our thoughts, nor busie care
    Oth' towne make us not thinke, where now we are
    And whether we are bound. Time nere forgot
    His journey, though his steps we numbred not.


  _To_ CASTARA.
  _What Lovers will say when she and he are dead._

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

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

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

    And youth by female perjury betraid,
      Will to _Castara's_ shrine deplore
      His injuries, and death obrayd,
    That woman lives more guilty, then before.

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

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

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


  _To his Muse._

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

_FINIS._




A Friend


_Is a man. For the free and open discovery of thoughts to woman can not
passe without an over licentious familiarity, or a justly occasion'd
suspition; and friendship can neither stand with vice or infamie. He
is vertuous, for love begot in sin is a mishapen monster, and seldome
out-lives his birth. He is noble, and inherits the vertues of all his
progenitors; though happily unskilfull to blazon his paternall coate;
So little should nobility serve for story, but when it encourageth to
action. He is so valiant, feare could never be listned to, when she
whisper'd danger; and yet fights not, unlesse religion confirmes the
quarrell lawfull. He submits his actions to the government of vertue,
not to the wilde decrees of popular opinion; and when his conscience
is fully satisfied, he cares not how mistake and ignorance interpret
him. He hath so much fortitude he can forgive an injurie; and when
he hath overthrown his opposer, not insult upon his weakenesse. He
is an absolute governor; no destroyer of his passions, which he
imployes to the noble increase of vertue. He is wise, for who hopes
to reape a harvest from the sands, may expect the perfect offices of
friendship from a foole. He hath by a liberall education beene softned
to civility; for that rugged honesty some rude men posesse, is an
indigested Chaos; which may containe the seedes of goodnesse, but it
wants forme and order._

_He is no flatterer; but when he findes his friend any way imperfect,
he freely but gently informes him; nor yet shall some few errors
cancell the bond of friendship; because he remembers no endeavours can
raise man above his frailety. He is as slow to enter into that title,
as he is to forsake it; a monstrous vice must disobliege, because an
extraordinary vertue did first unite; and when he parts, he doth it
without a duell. He is neither effeminate, nor a common courtier; the
first is so passionate a doater upon himselfe, hee cannot spare love
enough to bee justly named friendship: the latter hath his love so
diffusive among the beauties, that man is not considerable. He is not
accustomed to any sordid way of gaine, for who is any way mechanicke,
will sell his friend upon more profitable termes. He is bountifull, and
thinkes no treasure of fortune equall to the preservation of him he
loves; yet not so lavish, as to buy friendship and perhaps afterward
finde himselfe overseene in the purchase. He is not exceptious, for
jealousie proceedes from weakenesse, and his vertues quit him from
suspitions. He freely gives advice, but so little peremptory is his
opinion that he ingenuously submits it to an abler judgement. He
is open in expression of his thoughts and easeth his melancholy by
inlarging it; and no Sanctuary preserves so safely, as he his friend
afflicted. He makes use of no engines of his friendship to extort a
secret; but if committed to his charge, his heart receives it, and that
and it come both to light together. In life he is the most amiable
object to the soule, in death the most deplorable._




_The Funerals of the Honourable, my best friend and Kinsman_, GEORGE
TALBOT, Esquire.


  _Elegie, 1._

    Twere malice to the fame; to weepe alone
    And not enforce an universall groane
    From ruinous man, and make the World complaine:
    Yet I'le forbid my griefe to be prophane
    In mention of thy prayse; I'le speake but truth
    Yet write more honour than ere shin'd in youth.
    I can relate thy businesse here on earth,
    Thy mystery of life, thy noblest birth
    Out-shin'd by nobler vertue: but how farre
    Th' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest star,
    I cannot speake, nor whether thou art in
    Commission with a Throne, or Cherubin.
    Passe on triumphant in thy glorious way,
    Till thou hast reacht the place assign'd: we may
    Without disturbing the harmonious Spheares,
    Bathe here below thy memory in our teares.
    Ten dayes are past, since a dull wonder seis'd
    My active soule: Loud stormes of sighes are rais'd
    By empty griefes; they who can utter it,
    Doe no vent forth their sorrow, but their wit.
    I stood like _Niobe_ without a grone,
    Congeal'd into that monumentall stone
    That doth lye over thee: I had no roome
    For witty griefe, fit onely for thy tombe.
    And friendships monument, thus had I stood;
    But that the flame I beare thee, warm'd my blood
    With a new life. Ile like a funerall fire
    But burne a while to thee, and then expire.


  _Elegie, 2._

    _Talbot_ is dead. Like lightning which no part
    Oth' body touches, but first strikes the heart,
    This word hath murder'd me. Ther's not in all
    The stocke of sorrow, any charme can call
    Death sooner up. For musiqu's in the breath
    Of thunder, and a sweetnesse even ith' death
    That brings with it, if you with this compare
    All the loude noyses, which torment the ayre.
    They cure (Physitians say) the element
    Sicke with dull vapors, and to banishment
    Confine infections; but this fatall shreeke,
    Without the least redresse, is utter'd like
    The last dayes summons, when Earths trophies lye
    A scatter'd heape, and time it selfe must dye.
    What now hath life to boast of? Can I have
    A thought lesse darke than th' horror of the grave
    Now thou dost dwell below? Wer't not a fault
    Past pardon, to raise fancie 'bove thy vault?
    Hayle Sacred house in which his reliques sleepe?
    Blest marble give me leave t' approach and weepe,
    These vowes to thee! for since great _Talbot's_ gone
    Downe to thy silence, I commerce with none
    But thy pale people: and in that confute
    Mistaking man, that dead men are not mute.
    Delicious beauty, lend thy flatter'd eare
    Accustom'd to warme whispers, and thou'lt heare
    How their cold language tels thee, that thy skin
    Is but a beautious shrine, in which black sin
    Is Idoliz'd; thy eyes but Spheares where lust
    Hath its loose motion; and thy end is dust.
    Great _Atlas_ of the state, descend with me.
    But hither, and this vault shall furnish thee
    With more aviso's, then thy costly spyes,
    And show how false are all those mysteries
    Thy Sect receives, and though thy pallace swell
    With envied pride, 'tis here that thou must dwell.
    It will instruct you, Courtier, that your Art
    Of outward smoothnesse and a rugged heart
    But cheates your self, and all those subtill wayes
    You tread to greatnesse, is a fatall maze
    Where you your selfe shall loose, for though you breath
    Upward to pride, your center is beneath.
    And 'twill thy Rhetorick false flesh confound;
    Which flatters thy fraile thoughts, no time can wound
    This unarm'd frame. Here is true eloquence
    Will teach my soule to triumph over sence,
    Which hath its period in a grave, and there
    Showes what are all our pompous surfets here.
    Great Orator! deare _Talbot_! Still, to thee
    May I an auditor attentive be:
    And piously maintaine the same commerce
    We held in life! and if in my rude verse
    I to the world may thy sad precepts read:
    I will on earth interpret for the dead.


  _Elegie, 3._

    Let me contemplate thee (faire soule) and though
    I cannot tracke the way, which thou didst goe
    In thy cœlestiall journey; and my heart
    Expanssion wants, to thinke what now thou art
    How bright and wide thy glories; yet I may
    Remember thee, as thou wert in thy clay.
    Best object to my heart! what vertues be
    Inherent even to the least thought of thee!
    Death which to th' vig'rous heate of youth brings feare
    In its leane looke; doth like a Prince appeare,
    Now glorious to my eye, since it possest
    The wealthy empyre of that happie chest
    Which harbours thy rich dust; for how can he
    Be thought a bank'rout that embraces thee?
    Sad midnight whispers with a greedy eare
    I catch from lonely graves, in hope to heare
    Newes from the dead, nor can pale visions fright
    His eye, who since thy death feeles no delight
    In mans acquaintance. Mem'ry of thy fate
    Doth in me a sublimer soule create.
    And now my sorrow followes thee, I tread
    The milkie way, and see the snowie head
    Of _Atlas_ farre below, while all the high
    Swolne buildings seeme but atomes to my eye.
    I'me heighten'd by my ruine; and while I
    Weepe ore the vault where the sad ashes lye,
    My soule with thine doth hold commerce above;
    Where we discerne the stratagems, which Love,
    Hate, and ambition, use, to cozen man;
    So fraile that every blast of honour can
    Swell him above himselfe, each, adverse gust
    Him and his glories shiver into dust.
    How small seemes greatnesse here! How not a span
    His empire, who commands the Ocean.
    Both that, which boasts so much it's mighty ore
    And th' other, which with pearle, hath pav'd its' shore
    Nor can it greater seeme, when this great All
    For which men quarrell so, is but a ball
    Cast downe into the ayre to sport the starres.
    And all our generall ruines, mortall warres,
    Depopulated states, caus'd by their sway;
    And mans so reverend wisedome but their play.
    From thee, deare _Talbot_, living I did learne
    The Arts of life, and by thy light discerne
    The truth, which men dispute. But by thee dead
    I'me taught, upon the worlds gay pride to tread:
    And that way sooner master it, than he
    To whom both th' Indies tributary be.


  _Elegie, 4._

    My name, dear friend, even thy expiring breath
    Did call upon: affirming that thy death
    Would wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must be
    Indeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee.
    My Lord, if I with licence of your teares,
    (Which your great brother's hearse as dyamonds weares
    T' enrich deaths glory) may but speake my owne:
    Ile prove it, that no sorrow ere was knowne
    Reall as mine. All other mourners keepe
    In griefe a method: without forme I weepe.
    The sonne (rich in his fathers fate) hath eyes
    Wet just as long as are the obsequies.
    The widow formerly a yeare doth spend
    In her so courtly blackes. But for a Friend
    We weepe an age, and more than th' Achorit, have
    Our very thoughts confin'd within a Grave.
    Chast Love who hadst thy tryumph in my flame
    And thou _Castara_ who had hadst a name,
    But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verse
    Is lost to you, and onely on _Talbots_ herse
    Sadly attends. And till times fatall hand
    Ruines, what's left of Churches, there shall stand.
    There to thy selfe, deare _Talbot_, Ile repeate
    Thy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how great
    Thou wert in thy mindes Empire, and how all
    Who out-live thee, see but the Funerall
    Of glory: and if yet some vertuous be,
    They but weake apparitions are of thee.
    So setled were thy thoughts, each action so
    Discreetely ordered, that nor ebbe nor flow
    Was ere perceiv'd in thee: each word mature
    And every sceane of life from sinne so pure
    That scarce in its whole history, we can
    Finde vice enough, to say thou wert but man.
    Horror to say thou wert! Curst that we must
    Addresse our language to a little dust,
    And seeke for _Talbot_ there. Injurious fate,
    To lay my lifes ambition desolate.
    Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know,
    Not how it can give such another blow.


  _Elegie, 5._

    Chast as the Nuns first vow, as fairely bright
    As when by death her Soule shines in full light
    Freed from th' Eclipse of earth, each word that came
    From thee (deare _Talbot_) did beget a flame
    T' enkindle vertue: which so faire by thee
    Became, man, that blind mole, her face did see.
    But now t'our eye she's lost, and if she dwell
    Yet on the earth; she's coffin'd in the cell
    Of some cold Hermit; who so keepes her there,
    As if of her the old man jealous were.
    Nor ever showes her beauty, but to some
    _Carthusian_, who even by his vow, is dumbe!
    So 'mid the yce of the farre Northern sea,
    A starre about the Articke Circle, may
    Then ours yeeld clearer light; yet that but shall
    Serve at the frozen Pilots funerall.
    Thou (brightest constellation) to this maine
    Which all we sinners traffique on, didst daigne
    The bounty of thy fire, which with so cleare
    And constant beames did our frayle vessels steare,
    That safely we, what storme so ere bore sway,
    Past ore the rugged Alpes of th' angry Sea.
    But now we sayle at randome. Every rocke
    The folly doth of our ambition mocke
    And splits our hopes: To every Sirens breath
    We listen and even court the face of death,
    If painted ore by pleasure: Every wave
    Ift hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave:
    So ruinous is the defect of thee,
    To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to me
    Who liv'd one life with thine, drew but one breath,
    Possest with th' same mind and thoughts, 'twas death.
    And now by fate: I but my selfe survive,
    To keepe his mem'ry, and my griefes alive.
    Where shall I then begin to weepe? No grove
    Silent and darke, but is prophan'd by Love:
    With his warme whispers, and faint idle feares,
    His busie hopes, loud sighes, and causelesse teares
    Each eare is so enchanted; that no breath
    Is listned to, which mockes report of death.
    I'le turne my griefe then inward and deplore
    My ruine to my selfe, repeating ore
    The story of his vertues; untill I
    Not write, but am my selfe his Elegie.


  _Elegie, 6._

    Goe stop the swift-wing'd moments in their flight
    To their yet unknowne coast, goe hinder night
    From its approach on day, and force day rise
    From the faire East of some bright beauties eyes:
    Else vaunt not the proud miracle of verse.
    It hath no powre. For mine from his blacke herse
    Redeemes not _Talbot_, who cold as the breath
    Of winter, coffin'd lyes; silent as death,
    Stealing on th' Anch'rit, who even wants an eare
    To breath into his soft expiring prayer.
    For had thy life beene by thy vertues spun
    Out to a length, thou hadst out-liv'd the Sunne
    And clos'd the worlds great eye: or were not all
    Our wonders fiction, from thy funerall
    Thou hadst received new life, and liv'd to be
    The conqueror o're death, inspir'd by me.
    But all we Poets glory in, is vaine
    And empty triumph: Art cannot regaine
    One poore houre lost, nor reskew a small flye
    By a fooles finger destinate to dye.
    Live then in thy true life (great soule) for set
    At liberty by death thou owest no debt
    T' exacting Nature: Live, freed from the sport
    Of time and fortune in yand' starry court
    A glorious Potentate, while we below
    But fashion wayes to mitigate our woe.
    We follow campes, and to our hopes propose
    Th' insulting victor; not remembring those
    Dismembred trunkes who gave him victory
    By a loath'd fate: We covetous Merchants be
    And to our aymes pretend treasure and sway,
    Forgetfull of the treasons of the Sea.
    The shootings of a wounded conscience
    We patiently sustaine to serve our sence
    With a short pleasure; So we empire gaine
    And rule the fate of businesse, the sad paine
    Of action we contemne, and the affright
    Which with pale visions still attends our night.
    Our joyes false apparitions, but our feares
    Are certaine prophecies. And till our eares
    Reach that cælestiall musique, which thine now
    So cheerefully receive, we must allow
    No comfort to our griefes: from which to be
    Exempted, is in death to follow thee.


  _Elegie, 7._

    There is no peace in sinne. Æternall war
    Doth rage '<DW41> vices. But all vertues are
    Friends '<DW41> themselves, and choisest accents be
    Harsh Eccho's of their heavenly harmonie.
    While thou didst live we did that union finde
    In the so faire republick of thy mind,
    Where discord never swel'd. And as we dare
    Affirme those goodly structures, temples are
    Where well-tun'd quires strike zeale into the eare:
    The musique of thy soule made us say, there
    God had his Altars; every breath a spice
    And each religious act a sacrifice.
    But death hath that demolisht. All our eye
    Of thee now sees doth like a Cittie lye
    Raz'd by the cannon. Where is then that flame
    That added warmth and beauty to thy frame?
    Fled heaven-ward to repaire, with its pure fire
    The losses of some maim'd Seraphick quire?
    Or hovers it beneath, the world t' uphold
    From generall ruine, and expell that cold
    Dull humor weakens it? If so it be;
    My sorrow yet must prayse fates charity.
    But thy example (if kinde heaven had daignd
    Frailty that favour) had mankind regaind
    To his first purity. For that the wit
    Of vice, might not except 'gainst th' Ancherit
    As too to strickt; thou didst uncloyster'd live:
    Teaching the soule by what preservative,
    She may from sinnes contagion live secure,
    Though all the ayre she suckt in, were impure.
    In this darke mist of error with a cleare
    Unspotted light, thy vertue did appeare
    T' obrayd corrupted man. How could the rage
    Of untam'd lust have scorcht decrepit age;
    Had it seene thy chast youth? Who could the wealth
    Of time have spent in ryot, or his health
    By surfeits forfeited; if he had seene
    What temperance had in thy dyet beene?
    What glorious foole had vaunted honours bought
    By gold or practise, or by rapin brought
    From his fore-fathers, had he understood
    How _Talbot_ valued not his owne great blood!
    Had Politicians seene him scorning more
    The unsafe pompe of greatnesse, then the poore
    Thatcht roofes of shepheards, where th' unruly wind
    (A gentler storme than pride) uncheckt doth find
    Still free admittance: their pale labors had
    Beene to be good, not to be great and bad.
    But he is lost in a blind vault, and we
    Must not admire though sinnes now frequent be
    And uncontrol'd: Since those faire tables where
    The Law was writ by death now broken are,
    By death extinguisht is that Star, whose light
    Did shine so faithfull: that each ship sayl'd right
    Which steer'd by that. Nor marvell then if we,
    (That sailing) lost in this worlds tempest be.
    But to what Orbe so ere thou dost retyre,
    Far from our ken: tis blest, while by thy fire
    Enlighten'd. And since thou must never here
    Be seene againe: may I ore-take thee there.


  _Elegie, 8._

    Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor all
    The cunning Pompe of the Escuriall.
    Though there both th' Indies met in each smal room
    Th' are short in treasure of this precious tombe.
    Here is th' Epitome of wealth, this chest
    Is Natures chiefe Exchequer, hence the East
    When it is purified by th' generall fire
    Shall see these now pale ashes sparkle higher
    Then all the gems she vants: transcending far
    In fragrant lustre the bright morning star.
    Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather we
    Have by a cataract lost sight, then he
    Though dead his glory. So to us blacke night
    Brings darkenesse, when the Sun retaines his light.
    Thou eclips'd dust! Expecting breake of day
    From the thicke mists about thy Tombe, I'le pay
    Like the just Larke, the tribute of my verse
    I will invite thee, from thy envious herse
    To rise, and 'bout the World thy beames to spread,
    That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead.
    My zeale deludes me not. What perfumes come
    From th' happy vault? In her sweete martyrdome
    The nard breathes never so, nor so the rose
    When the enamor'd Spring by kissing blowes
    Soft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early East
    Vying with Paradice, ith' Phœnix nest.
    These gentle perfumes usher in the day
    Which from the night of his discolour'd clay
    Breakes on the sudden: for a Soule so bright
    Of force must to her earth contribute light.
    But if w' are so far blind, we cannot see
    The wonder of this truth; yet let us be
    Not infidels: nor like dull Atheists give
    Our selves so long to lust, till we believe
    (T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fall
    To a loath'd nothing in our Funerall.
      The bad mans death is horror. But the just
      Keepe something of his glory in his dust.

_FINIS._




CASTARA:

  THE THIRD PART.

  [Illustration]

  _LONDON_

  Printed by _Tho. Cotes_, for
  _Will. Cooke_ 1640.




A Holy Man


_Is onely Happie. For infelicity and sinne were borne twinnes; Or
rather like some prodigie with two bodies, both draw and expire the
same breath. Catholique faith is the foundation on which he erects
Religion; knowing it a ruinous madnesse to build in the ayre of a
private spirit, or on the sands of any new schisme. His impietie is
not so bold to bring divinity downe to the mistake of reason, or to
deny those misteries his apprehension reacheth not. His obedience moves
still by direction of the Magistrate: And should conscience informe him
that the command is unjust; he judgeth it neverthelesse high treason
by rebellion to make good his tenets; as it were the basest cowardize,
by dissimulation of religion, to preserve temporall respects. Hee
knowes humane pollicie but a crooked rule of action: and therefore
by a distrust of his owne knowledge attaines it: Confounding with
supernaturall illumination, the opinionated judgment of the wise. In
prosperity he gratefully admires the bounty of the Almighty giver, and
useth, not abuseth plenty: But in adversity hee remaines unshaken, and
like some eminent mountaine hath his head above the clouds. For his
happinesse is not meteor-like exhaled from the vapors of this world;
but shines a fixt starre, which when by misfortune it appeares to
fall, onely casts away the slimie matter. Poverty he neither feares
nor covets, but cheerefully entertaines; imagining it the fire which
tries vertue: Nor how tyrannically soever it usurpe on him, doth he pay
to it a sigh or wrinckle: for he who suffers want without reluctancie,
may be poore not miserable. He sees the covetous prosper by usury, yet
waxeth not leane with envie: and when the prosperitie of the impious
flourish, he questiones not the divine justice; for temporall rewards
distinguish not ever the merits of men: and who hath beene of councel
with the Æternall? Fame he weighes not, but esteemes a smoake, yet
such as carries with it the sweetest odour, and riseth usually from
the Sacrifice of our best actions. Pride he disdaines, when he findes
it swelling in himselfe; but easily forgiveth it in another: Nor can
any mans error in life, make him sinne in censure, since seldome the
folly we condemne is so culpable as the severity of our judgement.
He doth not malice the over-spreading growth of his equalls: but
pitties, not despiseth the fall of any man: Esteeming yet no storme
of fortune dangerous, but what is rais'd through our owne demerit.
When he lookes on others vices, he values not himselfe vertuous by
comparison, but examines his owne defects, and findes matter enough
at home for reprehension: In conversation his carriage is neither
plausible to flattery, nor reserv'd to rigor: but so demeanes himselfe
as created for societie. In solitude he remembers his better part is
Angelicall; and therefore his minde practiseth the best discourse
without assistance of inferiour Organs. Lust is the Basiliske he flyes,
a Serpent of the most destroying venome: for it blasts al plants with
the breath, and carries the most murdering Artillery in the eye: He
is ever merry but still modest. Not dissolved into undecent laughter,
or trickled with wit scurrilous or injurious. He cunningly searcheth
into the vertues of others, and liberally commends them: but buries
the vices of the imperfect in a charitable silence, whose manners he
reformes not by invectives but example: In prayer he is frequent not
apparent: yet as he labours not the opinion, so he feares not the
scandall of being thought good. He every day travailes his meditations
up to heaven, and never findes himself wearied with the journey: but
when the necessities of nature returne him downe to earth, he esteemes
it a place, hee is condemned to. Devotion is his Mistresse on which he
is passionately enamord: for that he hath found the most Soveraigne
antidote against sinne, and the onely balsome powerfull to cure those
wounds hee hath receav'd through frailety. To live he knowes a benefit,
and the contempt of it ingratitude, and therefore loves, but not doates
on life. Death how deformed soever an aspect it weares, he is not
frighted with: since it not annihilates, but uncloudes the soule. He
therefore stands every movement prepared to dye: and though he freely
yeelds up himself, when age or sicknesse sommon him; yet he with more
alacritie puts off his earth, when the profession of faith crownes him
a martyr._




_Twenty-two Poems, chiefly Sacred, with Scripture Text._


  _Domine labia mea aperies_ DAVID.

    Noe monument of me remaine,
          My mem'orie rust
    In the same marble with my dust:
    Ere I the spreadingst Laurell gaine,
    By writing wanton or profane.

    Ye glorious wonders of the skies,
          Shine still bright starres,
    Th' Almighties mystick Characters!
    Ile not your beautious lights surprise
    T' illuminate a womans eyes.

    Nor to perfume her veins, will I
          In each one set
    The purple of the violet.
    The untoucht flowre may grow and dye
    Safe from my fancies injurie.

    Open my lippes, great God! and then
          Ile soare above
    The humble flight of carnall love.
    Upward to thee Ile force my pen,
    And trace no path of vulgar men.

    For what can our unbounded soules
          Worthy to be
    Their object finde, excepting thee?
    Where can I fixe? since time controules
    Our pride, whose motion all things roules.

    Should I my selfe ingratiate
          T' a Princes smile;
    How soone may death my hopes beguile?
    And should I farme the proudest state,
    I'me Tennant to uncertaine fate.

    If I court gold; will it not rust?
          And if my love
    Toward a female beauty move;
    How will that surfet of our lust
    Distast us, when resolv'd to dust?

    But thou Æternall banquet! where
          For ever we
    May feede without satietie!
    Who harmonie art to the eare,
    Who art, while all things else appeare!

    While up to thee I shoote my flame
          Thou dost dispence
    A holy death, that murders sence,
    And makes me scorne all pompes, that ayme
    All other triumphs than thy name.

    It crownes me with a victory
          So heavenly, all
    That's earth from me away doth fall.
    And I, from my corruption free,
    Grow in my vowes even part of thee.


  _Versa est in luctum cythara mea._ JOB.

        Love! I no orgies sing
    Whereby thy mercies to invoke:
    Nor from the East rich perfumes bring
    To cloude the Altars with thy precious smoake.

        Nor while I did frequent
    Those fanes by lovers rais'd to thee:
    Did I loose heathenish rites invent,
    To force a blush from injur'd Chastitie.

        Religious was the charme
    I used affection to intice:
    And thought none burnt more bright or warme,
    Yet chaste as winter was the Sacrifice.

        But now I thee bequeath
    To the soft silken youths at Court:
    Who may their witty passions breath,
    To raise their Mistresse smile, or make her sport.

        They'le smooth thee into rime,
    Such as shall catch the wanton eare:
    And win opinion with the time,
    To make them a high sayle of honour beare.

        And may a powerfull smile
    Cherish their flatteries of wit!
    While I my life of fame beguile
    And under my owne vine uncounted sit.

        For I have seene the Pine
    Famed for its travels ore the Sea:
    Broken with stormes and age decline,
    And in some creeke unpittied rot away.

        I have seene Cædars fall,
    And in their roome a Mushrome grow:
    I have seene Comets, threatning all,
    Vanish themselves: I have seene Princes so.

        Vaine triviall dust! weake man!
    Where is that vertue of thy breath,
    That others save or ruine can,
    When thou thy selfe art cal'd t'account by death?

        When I consider thee
    The scorne of Time, and sport of fate:
    How can I turne to jollitie
    My ill-strung Harpe, and court the delicate?

        How can I but disdaine
    The emptie fallacies of mirth;
    And in my midnight thoughts retaine,
    How high so ere I spread, my root's in earth?

        Fond youth! too long I playd
    The wanton with a false delight.
    Which when I toucht, I found a shade
    That onely wrought on th' error of my sight.

        Then since pride doth betray
    The soule to flatter'd ignorance:
    I from the World will steale away
    And by humility my thoughts advance.


  _Perdam Sapientiam Sapientum_
  To the Right Honorable the Lord _Windsor_.

  _My Lord_,

    Forgive my envie to the World; while I
    Commend those sober thoughts, perswade you
    The glorious troubles of the Court. For though
    The vale lyes open to each overflow,
    And in the humble shade we gather ill
    And aguish ayres: yet lightnings oftner kill
    Oth' naked heights of mountaines, whereon we
    May have more prospect, not securitie.
    For when with losse of breath, we have orecome
    Some steepe ascent of power, and forc'd a roome
    On the so envi'd hill; how doe our hearts
    Pant with the labour, and how many arts
    More subtle must we practise, to defend
    Our pride from sliding, then we did t' ascend?
    How doth successe delude the mysteries
    And all th' involv'd designements of the wise?
    How doth that Power, our Pollitickes call chance,
    Racke them till they confesse the ignorance
    Of humane wit? Which, when 'tis fortified
    So strong with reason that it doth deride
    All adverse force oth' sudden findes its head
    Intangled in a spiders slender thread.
    Cœlestiall Providence! How thou dost mocke
    The boast of earthly wisdome? On some rocke
    When man hath a structure, with such art,
    It doth disdaine to tremble at the dart
    Of thunder, or to shrinke oppos'd by all
    The angry winds, it of it selfe doth fall,
    Ev'n in a calme so gentle that no ayre
    Breaths loude enough to stirre a Virgins haire!
    But misery of judgement: Though past time
    Instruct us by th' ill fortune of their crimes,
    And shew us how we may secure our state
    From pittied ruine, by anothers fate;
    Yet we contemning all such sad advice,
    Pursue to build though on a precipice.
      But you (my Lord) prevented by foresight
    To engage your selfe to such an unsafe height,
    And in your selfe both great and rich enough
    Refused t'expose your vessell to the rough
    Uncertaine sea of businesse: whence even they
    Who make the best returne, are forc't to say:
    The wealth we by our worldly traffique gaine,
    Weighes light if ballanc'd with the feare or paine.


  _Paucitatem dierum meorum nuncia mihi._ DAVID.

    Tell me O great All knowing God!
          What period
    Hast thou unto my dayes assign'd?
    Like some old leafelesse tree, shall I
    Wither away: or violently
    Fall by the axe, by lightning, or the Wind?

    Heere, where I first drew vitall breath
          Shall I meete death?
    And finde in the same vault a roome
    Where my fore-fathers ashes sleepe?
    Or shall I dye, where none shall weepe
    My timelesse fate, and my cold earth intombe?

    Shall I 'gainst the swift _Parthians_ fight
          And in their flight
    Receive my death? Or shall I see
    That envied peace, in which we are
    Triumphant yet, disturb'd by warre;
    And perish by th' invading enemie?

    Astrologers, who calculate
          Uncertaine fate
    Affirme my scheme doth not presage
    Any abridgement of my dayes:
    And the Phisitian gravely sayes,
    I may enjoy a reverent length of age.

    But they are jugglers, and by slight
          Of art the sight
    Of faith delude: and in their schoole
    They onely practise how to make
    A mistery of each mistake,
    And teach strange words, credulity to foole.

    For thou who first didst motion give,
          Whereby things live
    And Time hath being! to conceale
    Future events didst thinke it fit
    To checke th' ambition of our wit,
    And keepe in awe the curious search of zeale.

    Therefore so I prepar'd still be,
          My God for thee:
    Oth' sudden on my spirits may
    Some killing Apoplexie seize,
    Or let me by a dull disease
    Or weakened by a feeble age decay.

    And so I in thy favour dye,
          No memorie
    For me a well-wrought tombe prepare,
    For if my soule be '<DW41> the blest
    Though my poore ashes want a chest,
    I shall forgive the trespasse of my heire.


  _Non nobis Domine._ DAVID.

    No marble statue, nor high
    Aspiring Piramid be rays'd
    To lose its head within the skie!
    What claime have I to memory?
          God be thou onely prais'd!

    Thou in a moment canst defeate
    The mighty conquests of the proude,
    And blast the laurels of the great.
    Thou canst make brightest glorie set
          Oth' sudden in a cloude.

    How can the feeble workes of Art
    Hold out 'gainst the assault of stormes?
    Or how can brasse to him impart
    Sence of surviving fame, whose heart
          Is now resolv'd to wormes?

    Blinde folly of triumphing pride!
    Æternitie why buildst thou here?
    Dost thou not see the highest tide
    Its humbled streame in th' Ocean hide,
          And nere the same appeare?

    That tide which did its banckes ore-flow,
    As sent abroad by the angry sea
    To levell vastest buildings low,
    And all our Trophies overthrow;
          Ebbes like a theefe away.

    And thou who to preserve thy name
    Leav'st statues in some conquer'd land!
    How will posterity scorne fame,
    When th' Idoll shall receive a maime,
          And loose a foote or hand?

    How wilt thou hate thy warres, when he
    Who onely for his hire did raise
    Thy counterfet in stone; with thee
    Shall stand Competitor: and be
          Perhapes thought worthier praise?

    No Laurell wreath about my brow!
    To thee, my God, all praise, whose law
    The conquer'd doth and conqueror bow!
    For both dissolve to ayre, if thou
          Thy influence but withdraw.


  _Solum mihi superest sepulchrum._ JOB.

        Welcome thou safe retreate!
    Where th' injured man may fortifie
    'Gainst the invasions of the great:
    Where the leane slave, who th' Oare doth plye,
    Soft as his Admirall may lye.

        Great Statist! tis your doome
    Though your designes swell high, and wide
    To be contracted in a tombe!
    And all your happie cares provide
    But for your heire authorized pride.

        Nor shall your shade delight
    Ith' pompe of your proud obsequies.
    And should the present flatterie write
    A glorious Epitaph, the wise
    Will say, The Poets wit here lyes.

        How reconcil'd to fate
    Will grow the aged Villager,
    When he shall see your funerall state?
    Since death will him as warme inter
    As you in your gay sepulcher.

        The great decree of God
    Makes every path of mortals lead
    To this darke common period.
    For what by wayes so ere we tread,
    We end our journey '<DW41> the dead.

        Even I, while humble zeale
    Makes fancie a sad truth indite,
    Insensible a way doe steale:
    And when I'me lost in deaths cold night,
    Who will remember, now I write?


  _Et fugit velut umbra._ JOB.
  To the Right Honourable the Lord _Kintyre_.

  _My Lord_

    That shadow your faire body made
    So full of sport it still the mimick playde
    Ev'n as you mov'd and look'd but yesterday
    So huge in stature; Night hath stolen away.
    And this is th' emblem of our life: To please
    And flatter which, we sayle ore broken seas
    Unfaithfull in their rockes and tides; we dare
    All the sicke humors of a forraine ayre.
    And mine so deepe in earth, as we would trie
    To unlocke hell, should gold there hoarded lie.
    But when we have built up a ædefice
    T' outwrastle Time, we have but built on ice:
    For firme however all our structures be,
    Polisht with smoothest Indian Ivory,
    Rais'd high on marble, our unthankfull heire
    Will scarce retaine in memory, that we were.
    Tracke through the ayre the footesteps of the wind,
    And search the print of ships sayl'd by; then finde
    Where all the glories of those Monarchs be
    Who bore such sway in the worlds infancie.
    Time hath devour'd them all: and scarce can fame
    Give an account, that ere they had a name.
    How can he then who doth the world controle
    And strikes a terror now in either Pole,
    Th' insulting Turke secure himself that he
    Shall not be lost to dull Posterity?
    And though the Superstition of those Times
    Which deified Kings to warrant their owne crimes
    Translated Cæsar to a starre; yet they,
    Who every Region of the skie Survay;
    In their Cœlestiall travaile, that bright coast
    Could nere discover which containes his ghost.
    And after death to make that awe survive
    Which subjects owe their Princes yet alive,
    Though they build pallaces of brasse and jet
    And keepe them living in a counterfet;
    The curious looker on soone passes by
    And findes the tombe a sickenesse to his eye.
    Neither when once the soule is gone doth all
    The solemne triumph of the funerall
    Adde to her glory or her paine release:
    Then all the pride of warre, and wealth of peace
    For which we toild, from us abstracted be
    And onely serve to swell the history.
      These are sad thoughts (my Lord) and such as fright
    The easie soule made tender with delight,
    Who thinkes that he hath forfetted that houre
    Which addes not to his pleasure or his powre.
    But by the friendship which your Lordship daignes
    Your Servant, I have found your judgement raignes
    Above all passion in you: and that sence
    Could never yet demolish that strong fence
    Which Vertue guards you with: By which you are
    Triumphant in the best, the inward warre.


  _Nox nocti indicat Scientiam._ DAVID.

      When I survay the bright
          Cœlestiall spheare:
    So rich with jewels hung, that night
    Doth like an Æthiop bride appeare.

      My soule her wings doth spread
          And heaven-ward flies,
    Th' Almighty's Mysteries to read
    In the large volumes of the skies.

      For the bright firmament
          Shootes forth no flame
    So silent, but is eloquent
    In speaking the Creators name.

      No unregarded star
          Contracts its light
    Into so small a Charactar,
    Remov'd far from our humane sight:

      But if we stedfast looke,
          We shall discerne
    In it as in some holy booke,
    How man may heavenly knowledge learne.

      It tells the Conqueror,
          That farre-stretcht powre
    Which his proud dangers traffique for,
    Is but the triumph of an houre.

      That from the farthest North;
          Some Nation may
    Yet undiscovered issue forth,
    And ore his new got conquest sway.

      Some Nation yet shut in
          With hils of ice
    May be let out to scourge his sinne
    'Till they shall equall him in vice.

      And then they likewise shall
          Their ruine have,
    For as your selves your Empires fall,
    And every Kingdome hath a grave.

      Thus those Cœlestiall fires,
          Though seeming mute
    The fallacie of our desires
    And all the pride of life confute.

      For they have watcht since first
          The World had birth:
    And found sinne in it selfe accurst,
    And nothing permanent on earth.


  _Et alta a longè cognoscit._ DAVID.

      To the cold humble hermitage
    (Not tenanted but by discoloured age,
      Or youth enfeebled by long prayer
    And tame with fasts) th' Almighty doth repaire.
      But from the lofty gilded roofe
    Stain'd with some Pagan fiction, keepes a loofe.
      Nor the gay Landlord daignes to know
    Whose buildings are like Monsters but for show.
      Ambition! whither wilt thee climbe,
    Knowing thy art, the mockery of time?
      Which by examples tells the high
    Rich structures, they must as their owners dye:
      And while they stand, their tennants are
    Detraction, flattry, wantonnesse, and care,
      Pride, envie, arrogance, and doubt,
    Surfet, and ease still tortured by the gout.
      O rather may I patient dwell
    In th' injuries of an ill-cover'd cell!
      'Gainst whose too weake defence the haile,
    The angry winds, and frequent showres prevaile.
      Where the swift measures of the day,
    Shall be distinguisht onely as I pray:
      And some starres solitary light
    Be the sole taper to the tedious night.
      The neighbo'ring fountaine (not accurst
    Like wine with madnesse) shall allay my thirst:
      And the wilde fruites of Nature give
    Dyet enough, to let me feele I feele, I live.
      You wantons! who impoverish Seas,
    And th' ayre dispeople, your proud taste to please!
      A greedy tyrant you obey
    Who varies still its tribute with the day.
      What interest doth all the vaine
    Cunning of surfet to your sences gaine?
      Since it obscure the Spirit must
    And bow the flesh to sleep disease or lust.
      While who forgetting rest and fare;
    Watcheth the fall and rising of each starre,
      Ponders how bright the orbes doe move,
    And thence how much more bright the heav'ns above
      Where on the heads of Cherubins
    Th' Almightie sits disdaining our bold sinnes:
      Who while on th' earth we groveling lye
    Dare in our pride of building tempt the skie.


  _Universum stratum ejus versasti in infirmitate ejus._ DAVID.

        My Soule! When thou and I
    Shall on our frighted death-bed lye;
    Each moment watching when pale death
    Shall snatch away our latest breath,
    And 'tweene two long joyn'd Lovers force
        An endlesse sad divorce:

        How wilt thou then? that art
    My rationall and nobler part,
    Distort thy thoughts? How wilt thou try
    To draw from weake Philosophie
    Some strength: and flatter thy poor state,
        'Cause tis the common fate?

        How wilt thy spirits pant
    And tremble when they feele the want
    Of th' usuall organs; and that all
    The vitall powers begin to fall?
    When 'tis decreed, that thou must goe,
        Yet whither; who can know?

        How fond and idle then
    Will seeme the misteries of men?
    How like some dull ill-acted part
    The subtlest of proud humane art?
    How shallow ev'n the deepest sea,
        When thus we ebbe away?

        But how shall I (that is
    My fainting earth) looke pale at this?
    Disjointed on the racke of paine.
    How shall I murmur, how complaine;
    And craving all the ayde of skill,
        Finde none, but what must kill?

        Which way so ere my griefe
    Doth throw my sight to court releese,
    I shall but meete despaire; for all
    Will prophesie my funerall:
    The very silence of the roome
        Will represent a tombe.

        And while my Childrens teares,
    My Wives vaine hopes, but certaine feares,
    And councells of Divines advance
    Death in each dolefull circumstance:
    I shall even a sad mourner be
        At my owne obsequie.

        For by examples I
    Must know that others sorrowes dye
    Soone as our selves, and none survive
    To keepe our memories alive.
    Even our fals tombes, as loath to say
        We once had life, decay.


  _Laudate Dominum de cœlis._ DAVID.

    You Spirits! who have throwne away
        That enveous weight of clay
    Which your cælestiall flight denyed:
    Who by your glorious troopes supply
        The winged Hierarchie,
    So broken in the Angells pride!

    O you! whom your Creators sight
        Inebriates with delight!
    Sing forth the triumphs of his name
    All you enamord soules! agree
        In a loud symphonie:
    To give expressions to your flame!

    To him, his owne great workes relate,
        Who daign'd to elevate
    You 'bove the frailtie of your birth:
    Where you stand safe from that rude warre,
        With which we troubled are
    By the rebellion of our earth.

    While a corrupted ayre beneath
        Here in this World we breath
    Each houre some passion us assailes:
    Now lust casts wild-fire in the blood,
        Or that it may seeme good,
    It selfe in wit or beauty vailes.

    Then envie circles us with hate,
        And lays a siege so streight,
    No heavenly succor enters in:
    But if Revenge admittance finde,
        For ever hath the mind
    Made forfeit of it selfe to sinne.

    Assaulted thus, how dare we raise
        Our mindes to thinke his praise,
    Who is Æternall and immens?
    How dare we force our feeble wit
        To speake him infinite,
    So farre above the search of sence?

    O you! who are immaculate
        His name may celebrate
    In your soules bright expansion.
    You whom your venues did unite
        To his perpetuall light,
    That even with him you now shine one.

    While we who t' earth contract our hearts,
        And onely studie Arts
    To shorten the sad length of Time:
    In place of joyes bring humble feares:
        For hymnes, repentant teares
    And a new sigh for every crime.


  _Qui quasi flos egreditur._
  To the Right Honourable, the Lady _Cat. T._

        Faire Madame! You
    May see what's man in yond' bright rose.
    Though it the wealth of Nature owes,
    It is opprest, and bends with dew.

        Which shewes, though fate
    May promise still to warme our lippes,
    And keepe our eyes from an ecclips;
    It will our pride with teares abate.

        Poor silly flowre!
    Though in thy beauty thou presume,
    And breath which doth the spring perfume;
    Thou may'st be cropt this very houre.

        And though it may
    Then thy good fortune be, to rest
    Oth' pillow of some Ladies brest;
    Thou'lt whither, and be throwne away.

        For 'tis thy doome
    However, that there shall appeare
    No memory that thou grew'st heere,
    Ere the tempestuous winter come.

        But flesh is loath
    By meditation to fore see
    How loath'd a nothing it must be:
    Proud in the triumphes of its growth.

        And tamely can
    Behold this mighty world decay
    And weare by th' age of time away:
    Yet not discourse the fall of man.

        But Madam these
    Are thoughts to cure sicke humane pride.
    And med'cines are in vaine applyed.
    To bodies far 'bove all disease.

        For you so live
    As th' Angels in one perfect state;
    Safe from the ruines of our fate,
    By vertues great preservative.

        And though we see
    Beautie enough to warme each heart;
    Yet you by a chaste Chimicke Art,
    Calcine fraile love to pietie.


  _Quid gloriaris in malicia?_ DAVID.

    Swell no more proud man, so high!
    For enthron'd where ere you sit
    Rais'd by fortune, sinne and wit:
    In a vault thou dust must lye.
    He who's lifted up by vice
    Hath a neighb'ring precipice
    Dazeling his distorted eye.

    Shallow is that unsafe sea
    Over which you spread your saile:
    And the Barke you trust to, fraile
    As the Winds it must obey.
    Mischiefe, while it prospers, brings
    Favour from the smile of Kings;
    Uselesse soone is throwne away.

    Profit, though sinne it extort,
    Princes even accounted good,
    Courting greatnesse nere withstood,
    Since it Empire doth support.
    But when death makes them repent
    They condemne the instrument,
    And are thought Religious for 't.

    Pitch'd downe from that height you beare,
    How distracted will you lye;
    When your flattering Clients flye
    As your fate infectious were?
    When of all th' obsequious throng
    That mov'd by your eye and tongue,
    None shall in the storme appeare?

    When that abject insolence
    (Which submits to the more great,
    And disdaines the weaker state,
    As misfortune were offence)
    Shall at Court be judged a crime
    Though in practise, and the Time
    Purchase wit at your expence.

    Each small tempest shakes the proud;
    Whose large branches vainely sprout
    'Bove the measure of the roote.
    But let stormes speake nere so loud,
    And th' astonisht day benight;
    Yet the just shines in a light
    Faire as noone without a cloud.


  _Deus Deus Meus._ DAVID.

        Where is that foole Philosophie,
    That bedlam Reason, and that beast dull sence;
        Great God! when I consider thee
    Omnipotent, Æternall, and imens?
        Unmov'd thou didst behold the pride
    Of th' Angels, when they to defection fell?
        And without passion didst provide
    To punish treason, rackes and death in hell.
        Thy Word created this great All,
    Ith' lower part whereof we wage such warres:
        The upper bright and sphæricall
    By purer bodies tenanted, the starres.
        And though sixe dayes it thee did please
    To build this frame, the seventh for rest assigne;
        Yet was it not thy paine or ease,
    But to teach man the quantities of Time.
        This world so mighty and so faire,
    So 'bove the reach of all dimension:
        If to thee God we should compare,
    Is not the slenderst atome to the Sun.
        What then am I poore nothing man!
    That elevate my voyce and speake of thee?
        Since no imagination can
    Distinguish part of thy immensitie?
        What am I who dare call thee God!
    And raise my fancie to discourse thy power?
        To whom dust is the period,
    Who am not sure to farme this very houre?
        For how know I the latest sand
    In my fraile glasse of life, doth not now fall?
        And while I thus astonisht stand
    I but prepare for my own funerall?
        Death doth with man no order keepe:
    It reckons not by the expence of yeares,
        But makes the Queene and beggar weepe,
    And nere distinguishes betweene their teares.
        He who the victory doth gaine
    Falls as he him pursues, who from him flyes,
        And is by too good fortune slaine.
    The Lover in his amorous courtship dyes.
        The states-man suddenly expires
    While he for others ruine doth prepare:
        And the gay Lady while sh' admires
    Her pride, and curles in wanton nets her haire.
        No state of man is fortified
    'Gainst the assault of th' universall doome:
        But who th' Almightie feare, deride
    Pale death, and meete with triumph in the tombe.


  _Quonian ego in flagella paratus sum._ DAVID.

        Fix me on some bleake precipice,
    Where I ten thousand yeares may stand:
    Made now a statute of ice,
    Then by the summer scorcht and tan'd!

        Place me alone in some fraile boate
    'Mid th' horrors of an angry Sea:
    Where I while time shall move, may floate
    Despairing either land or day!

        Or under earth my youth confine
    To th' night and silence of a cell:
    Where Scorpions may my limbes entwine.
    O God! So thou forgive me hell.

        Æternitie! when I think thee,
    (Which never any end must have,
    Nor knew'st beginning) and fore-see
    Hell is design'd for sinne a grave.

        My frighted flesh trembles to dust,
    My blood ebbes fearefully away:
    Both guilty that they did to lust,
    And vanity, my youth betray.

        My eyes, which from each beautious sight
    Drew Spider-like blacke venome in:
    Close like the marigold at night
    Opprest with dew to bath my sin.

        My eares shut up that easie dore
    Which did proud fallacies admit:
    And vow to heare no follies more;
    Deafe to the charmes of sinne and wit.

        My hands (which when they toucht some faire
    Imagin'd such an excellence,
    As th' Ermines skin ungentle were)
    Contract themselves, and loose all sence.

        But you bold sinners! still pursue
    Your valiant wickednesse, and brave
    Th' Almighty Justice: hee'le subdue
    And make you cowards in the grave.

        Then when he as your judge appeares,
    In vaine you'le tremble and lament.
    And hope to soften him with teares,
    To no advantage penitent.

        Then will you scorne those treasures, which
    So fiercely now you doate upon:
    Then curse those pleasures did bewitch
    You to this sad illusion.

        The neighb'ring mountaines which you shall
    Wooe to oppresse you with their weight:
    Disdainefull will deny to fall,
    By a sad death to ease your fate.

        In vaine some midnight storme at sea
    To swallow you, you will desire:
    In vaine upon the wheels you'le pray
    Broken with torments to expire.

        Death, at the sight of which you start,
    In a mad fury then you'le Court:
    Yet hate th' expressions of your heart,
    Which onely shall be sigh'd for sport.

        No sorrow then shall enter in
    With pitty the great judges eares.
    This moment's ours. Once dead, his sin
    Man cannot expiate with teares.


  _Militia est vita hominis._
  To Sir _Hen. Per._

  _Sir_

    Were it your appetite of glory, (which
    In noblest times, did bravest soules bewitch
    To fall in love with danger,) that now drawes
    You to the fate of warre; it claimes applause:
    And every worthy hand would plucke a bough
    From the best spreading bay, to shade your brow.
    Since you unforc'd part from your Ladies bed
    Warme with the purest love, to lay your head
    Perhaps on some rude turfe, and sadly feele
    The nights cold dampes wrapt in a sheete of steele.
    You leave your well grown woods; and meadows which
    Our _Severne_ doth with fruitfull streames enrich.
    Your woods where we see such large heards of Deere
    Your meades whereon such goodly flockes appeare.
    You leave your Castle, safe both for defence
    And sweetely wanton with magnificence
    With all the cost and cunning beautified
    That addes to state, where nothing wants but pride.
    These charmes might have bin pow'rful to have staid
    Great mindes resolv'd for action, and betraid
    You to a glorious ease: since to the warre
    Men by desire of prey invited are,
    Whom either sinne or want makes desperate,
    Or else disdaine of their owne narrow fate.
    But you, nor hope of fame or a release
    Of the most sober government in peace,
    Did to the hazard of the armie bring
    Onely a pure devotion to the King
    In whose just cause whoever fights, must be
    Triumphant: since even death is victory.
    And what is life, that we to wither it
    To a weake wrinckled age, should torture wit
    To finde out Natures secrets; what doth length
    Of time deserve, if we want heate and strength?
    When a brave quarrell doth to arms provoke
    Why should we feare to venter this thin smoke
    This emptie shadow, life? this which the wise
    As the fooles Idoll, soberly despise?
    Why should we not throw willingly away
    A game we cannot save, now that we may
    Gaine honour by the gift? since haply when
    We onely shall be statue of men
    And our owne monuments, Peace will deny
    Our wretched age so brave a cause to dye.
    But these are thoughts! And action tis doth give
    A soule to courage, and make vertue live:
    Which doth not dwell upon the valiant tongue
    Of bold Philosophie, but in the strong
    Undaunted spirit, which encounters those
    Sad dangers, we to fancie scarce propose.
    Yet tis the true and highest fortitude
    To keepe our inward enemies subdued:
    Not to permit our passions over sway
    Our actions, not our wanton flesh betray
    The soules chaste Empire: for however we
    To th' outward shew may gaine a victory
    And proudly triumph: if to conquour sinne
    We combate not, we are at warre within.


  _Vias tuas Domine demonstra mihi._

    Where have I wandred? In what way
        Horrid as night
    Increast by stormes did I delight?
    Though my sad soule did often say
    Twas death and madnesse so to stray.

    On that false ground I joy'd to tread
        Which seemed most faire,
    Though every path had a new snare,
    And every turning still did lead,
    To the darke Region of the dead.

    But with the surfet of delight
        I am so tyred
    That now I loath what I admired,
    And my distasted appetite
    So 'bhors the meate, it hates the sight.

    For should we naked sinne discry
        Not beautified
    By th' ayde of wantonnesse and pride
    Like some mishapen birth, 'twould lye
    A torment to th' affrighted eye.

    But cloath'd in beauty and respect.
        Even ore the wise,
    How powerfull doth it tyrannize!
    Whose monstrous storme should they detract
    They famine sooner would affect.

    And since those shadowes which oppresse
        My sight begin
    To cleere, and show the shape of sinne,
    A Scorpion sooner be my guest,
    And warme his venome in my brest.

    May I before I growe so vile
        By sinne agen,
    Be throwne off as a scorne to men!
    May th' angry world decree, t' exile
    Me to some yet unpeopled Isle.

    Where while I struggle, and in vaine
        Labor to finde
    Some creature that shall have a minde,
    What justice have I to complaine
    If I thy inward grace retaine?

    My God if thou shalt not exclude
        Thy comfort thence:
    What place can seeme to troubled sence
    So melancholly darke and rude,
    To be esteem'd a solitude.

    Cast me upon some naked shore
        Where I may tracke
    Onely the print of some sad wracke;
    If thou be there, though the seas rore,
    I shall no gentler calme implore.

    Should the _Cymmerians_, whom no ray
        Doth ere enlight
    But gaine thy grace, th' have lost their night:
    Not sinners at high noone, but they
    '<DW41> their blind cloudes have found the day.


  _Et Exultavit Humiles._

    How cheerefully th' unpartiall Sunne
        Gilds with his beames
        The narrow streames
    Oth' Brooke which silently doth runne
        Without a name?
    And yet disdaines to lend his flame
    To the wide channell of the Thames?

    The largest mountaines barren lye
        And lightning feare,
        Though they appeare
    To bid defiance to the skie;
        Which in one houre
    W' have seene the opening earth devoure
    When in their height they proudest were.

    But th' humble man heaves up his head
        Like some rich vale
        Whose fruites nere faile
    With flowres, with corne, and vines ore-spread.
        Nor doth complaine
    Oreflowed by an ill season'd raine
    Or batter'd by a storme of haile.

    Like a tall Barke with treasure fraught
        He the seas cleere
        Doth quiet steere:
    But when they are t' a tempest wrought;
        More gallantly
    He spreads his saile, and doth more high
    By swelling of the waves, appeare.

    For the Almighty joyes to force
        The glorious tide
        Of humane pride
    To th' lowest ebbe; that ore his course
        (Which rudely bore
    Downe what oppos'd it heretofore)
    His feeblest enemie may stride.

    But from his ill-thatcht roofe he brings
        The Cottager
        And doth preferre
    Him to th' adored state of Kings:
        He bids that hand
    Which labour hath made rough and tand
    The all commanding Scepter beare.

    Let then the mighty cease to boast
        Their boundlesse sway:
        Since in their Sea
    Few sayle, but by some storme are lost.
        Let them themselves
    Beware, for they are their owne shelves.
    Man still himselfe hath cast away.


  _Dominus Dominantium._

    Supreame Divinitie! Who yet
          Coulde ever finde
    By the bold scrutinie of wit,
    The treasurie where thou lock'st up the wind?

    What Majesty of Princes can
          A tempest awe;
    When the distracted Ocean
    Swells to Sedition, and obeyes no Law?

    How wretched doth the Tyrant stand
          Without a boast?
    When his rich fleete even touching land
    He by some storme in his owne Port sees lost?

    Vaine pompe of life! what narrow bound
          Ambition
    Is circled with? How false a ground
    Hath humane pride to build its triumphs on.

    And Nature how dost thou delude
        Our search to know?
    When the same windes which here intrude
    On us with frosts and onely winter blow:

    Breath temprate on th' adjoyning earth;
        And gently bring
    To the glad field a fruitfull birth
    With all the treasures of a wanton Spring.

    How diversly death doth assaile;
        How sporting kill?
    While one is scorcht up in the vale
    The other is congeald oth' neighboring hill.

    While he with heates doth dying glow
        Above he sees
    The other hedg'd in with his snow
    And envies him his ice although he freeze.

    Proud folly of pretending Art,
        Be ever dumbe,
    And humble thy aspiring heart,
    When thou findest glorious Reason overcome.

    And you Astrologers, whose eye
        Survayes the starres!
    And offer thence to prophesie
    Successe in peace, and the event of warres.

    Throw downe your eyes upon that dust
        You proudly tread!
    And know to that resolve you must!
    That is the scheme where all their fate may read.


  _Cogitabo pro peccato meo._

        In what darke silent grove
    Profan'd by no unholy love
    Where witty melancholy nere
    Did carve the trees or wound the ayre,
    Shall I religious leasure winne
        To weepe away my sinne?

        How fondly have I spent
    My youthes unvalued treasure, lent
    To traffique for Cœlestiall joyes?
    My unripe yeares pursuing toyes;
    Judging things best that were most gay
        Fled unobserv'd away.

        Growne elder I admired
    Our Poets as from heaven inspired
    What Obeliskes decreed I fit
    For _Spencers_ Art, and _Sydnyes_ wit?
    But waxing sober soone I found
        Fame but an Idle sound.

        Then I my blood obey'd
    And each bright face an Idoll made:
    Verse in an humble Sacrifice,
    I offer'd to my Mistresse eyes,
    But I no sooner grace did win
        But met the devill within.

        But growne more polliticke
    I tooke account of each state tricke:
    Observ'd each motion, judg'd him wise,
    Who had a conscience fit to rise.
    Whome soone I found but forme and rule
        And the more serious foole.

        But now my soule prepare
    To ponder what and where we are
    How fraile is life, how vaine a breath
    Opinion, how uncertaine death:
    How onely a poore stone shall beare
        Witnesse that once we were.

        How a shrill Trumpet shall
    Us to the barre as traytors call.
    Then shall we see too late that pride
    Hath hope with flattery bely'd
    And that the mighty in command
        Pale Cowards there must stand.


  _Recogitabo tibi omnes annos meos._ ISAY.

    Time! where didst thou those years inter
        Which I have seene decease?
    My soules at war and truth bids her
    Finde out their hidden Sepulcher,
        To give her troubles peace.

    Pregnant with flowers doth not the Spring
        Like a late bride appeare?
    Whose fether'd Musicke onely bring
    Caresses, and no Requiem sing
        On the departed yeare?

    The Earth, like some rich wanton heire,
        Whose Parents coffin'd lye,
    Forgets it once lookt pale and bare
    And doth for vanities prepare,
        As the Spring nere should dye.

    The present houre, flattered by all
        Reflects not on the last;
    But I, like a sad factor shall
    T' account my life each moment call,
        And onely weepe the past.

    My mem'ry trackes each severall way
        Since Reason did begin
    Over my actions her first sway:
    And teacheth me that each new day
        Did onely vary sin.

    Poor banckrout Conscience! where are those
        Rich houres but farm'd to thee?
    How carelessely I some did lose,
    And other to my lust dispose
        As no rent day should be?

    I have infected with impure
        Disorders my past yeares.
    But Ile to penitence inure
    Those that succeed. There is no cure
        Nor Antidote but teares.


  _Cupio dissolvi._ PAULE.

    The soule which doth with God unite,
    Those gayities how doth she slight
        Which ore opinion sway?
    Like sacred Virgin wax, which shines
    On Altars or on Martyrs shrines
        How doth she burne away?

    How violent are her throwes till she
    From envious earth delivered be,
        Which doth her flight restraine?
    How doth she doate on whips and rackes,
    On fires and the so dreaded Axe,
        And every murd'ring paine?

    How soone she leaves the pride of wealth,
    The flatteries of youth and health
        And fames more precious breath.
    And every gaudy circumstance
    That doth the pompe of life advance
        At the approach of death?

    The cunning of Astrologers
    Observes each motion of the starres
        Placing all knowledge there:
    And Lovers in their Mistresse eyes
    Contract those wonders of the skies,
        And seeke no higher sphere.

    The wandring Pilot sweates to find
    The causes that produce the wind
        Still gazing on the Pole.
    The Politician scornes all Art
    But what doth pride and power impart.
        And swells the ambitious soule.

    But he whom heavenly fire doth warme,
    And 'gainst these powerful follies arme,
        Doth soberly disdaine
    All these fond humane misteries
    As the deceitfull and unwise
        Distempers of our braine.

    He as a burden beares his clay,
    Yet vainely throwes it not away
        On every idle cause:
    But with the same untroubled eye
    Can resolve to live or dye,
        Regardlesse of th' applause.

    My God! If 'tis thy great decree
    That this must the last moment be
        Wherein I breath this ayre;
    My heart obeyes joy'd to retreate
    From the false favours of the great
        And treachery of the faire.

    When thou shalt please this soule t' enthrone,
    Above impure corruption;
        What shall I grieve or feare.
    To thinke this breathlesse body must
    Become a loathsome heape of dust
        And nere againe appeare.

    For in the fire when Ore is tryed,
    And by that torment purified:
        Doe we deplore the losse?
    And when thou shalt my soule refine,
    That it thereby may purer shine
        Shall I grieve for the drosse?

_FINIS._




A List of WORKS

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            and Literature, Mason College, Birmingham._


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Detailed Transcriber's Note

Archaic, dialectical and other spellings not in current usage have been
left as in the original book. Obvious misprints have been fixed. Text
that was originally printed in blackletter has been changed to all
capitals without further comment. Details of the text changes are below.

  P. 003:     our Poet's grand-father,
  Originally: our Poet's grandfather,

  P. 005: Formatting of the entries in the list of published works has
  been standardized.

  P. 005:     the battle of Varna, 1444;
  Originally: the battle of Varma, 1444;

  P. 005:     i. The Author. [A Prose Preface]
  Originally: i. The Authour. [A Prose Preface]

  P. 008:     137. ... Phil. i. 23. The soule which
  Originally: 137. ... Phil. 1. 23. The soule which

  P. 011:     (I meane onely as she is externally faire)
  Originally: (I meane onlye as she is externally faire)

  P. 013:     me, I am armed to endure.
  Originally: me, I an armed to endure

  P. 014:     than good Poet, a good man.
  Originally: than good Poët, a good man.

  P. 017 inserted chapter title from TOC: _Fifty-seven Poems, chiefly
  on Love and Courtship._

  P. 017:     their bright flames: which
  Originally: their bright flâmes: which

  P. 019:     _To my honoured Friend_, Mr. E. P.
  Originally: _To my honoured Friend_, M^r. E. P.

  P. 023:     Then th' Indians boast:
  Originally: The th' Indians boast:

  P. 023:     When Poets weepe some Virgins death
  Originally: When Poëts weepe some Virgins death

  P. 034:     My soule imparadis'd, for 'tis with her.
  Originally: My soule impardis'd, for 'tis with her.

  P. 039:     _To the honourable my honoured kinsman_, Mr. G. T.
  Originally: _To the honourable my honoured kinsman_, M^r. G. T.

  P. 044:     NIGHT _and_ ARAPHILL.
  Originally: NIGHT _and_ ARAPHIL.

  P. 047:     _To the Honourable Mr._ Wm. E.
  Originally: _To the Honourable M^r._ W^m. E.

  P. 048:     _To the Honourable my most honoured friend_, Wm. E.
  Originally: _To the Honourable my most honoured friend_, W^m. E.

  P. 050:     _To my most honoured Friend and Kinsman_
  Originally: _To my_ [_most_] _honoured Friend and Kinsman_

  P. 051:     dote without Philosophie
  Originally: dote without Phisosophie

  P. 051:     in your dull propagation.
  Originally: in your dull progagation.

  P. 053:     _To_ CASTARA,
  Originally: TO CASTARA,

  P. 059 changed chapter title to match TOC: _Fifty Poems, chiefly on
  Wedded Happiness._
  Originally: _The Second Part._

  P. 059:     Thou wept a Virgin,
  Originally: Thou wepst a Virgin,

  P. 060:     Or hoist up saile;
  Originally: Or hoish up saile;

  P. 063:     To-day will give you
  Originally: To day will give you

  P. 064:     in some dead mans eare,
  Originally: in some deads mans eare,

  P. 072-73, footnotes 23 & 24: Unlike other footnotes showing wording
  in previous versions, these do not contain the publication dates when
  the other wording appeared.

  P. 074:     From the angry North-wind.
  Originally: From the angry Northwind.

  P. 078:     Who liv'd a solitary Phœnix free
  Originally: Who liv'd a solitary Phænix free

  P. 078:     _To my worthy Cousin_ Mr. E. C.
  Originally: _To my worthy Cousin_ M^r. E. C.

  P. 083:     With the stolen pleasure of one night.
  Originally: With the stolne pleasure of one night.

  P. 088:     Henry Cambell, _sonne to the Earle of_ Arg.
  Originally: Henry Cambell, _sonne to the Earle of_ Ar[g].

  P. 100:     so little peremptory is his opinion
  Originally: so little peremptory is his opiuion

  P. 113:     and when the prosperitie of the impious
  Originally: and when the prosteritie of the impious

  P. 114:     antidote against sinne,
  Originally: antidote aga[i]nst sinne,

  P. 114:     and the onley balsome powerfull
  Originally: and the onely balsome powerfull

  P. 115 Inserted chapter title from the TOC: _Twenty-two Poems, chiefly
  Sacred, with Scripture Text._

  P. 126:     Universum stratum ejus
  Originally: Universum st[r]atum ejus

  P. 135:     Of the most sober government in peace,
  Originally: Of the most sober goverment in peace,

  P. 137:     And warme his venome in my brest.
  Originally: And warme his enome in my brest.

  P. 137:     Where while I struggle,
  Originally: Where while I straggle,

  P. 144:     And 'gainst these
  Originally: Amd 'gainst these





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Castara, by William Habington

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