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,