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