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, 'mong her nimphs. For every quire
Of vulgar starres, who lend their weaker fire
To conquer the nights chilnesse, with their Queene,
In harmelesse revels tread the happy greene.
But I who am proscrib'd by tyrant love,
Seeke out a silent exile in some grove,
Where nought except a solitary Spring,
Was ever heard, to which the Nimphs did sing
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.
To 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 'mong 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.