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