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?