And thus distracted cry. Tell me thou cleere,
But treach'rous Fount, what lover's coffin'd here?
An[14] answere to Castara's question.
T'is I Castara, who when thou wert gone,
Did freeze into this melancholy stone,
To weepe the minutes of thy absence. Where
Can greefe have freer scope to mourne than here?
The Larke here practiseth a sweeter straine,
Aurora's early blush to entertaine,