Distill you from her eyes as teares?
Or that Castara for your zeale,
When she her beauties shall reveale,
Might you to Dyamonds congeale?
If not your pity, yet how ere
Your care I praise, 'gainst she appeare,
To make the wealthy Indies here.
But see she comes. Bright lampe oth' skie,
Put out thy light: the world shall spie,
A fairer Sunne in either eye.