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