Transcriber's Note

Archaic, dialectical and other spellings not in current usage have been left as in the original book. Obvious misprints have been fixed. Details of the changes appear at the [end of the text].

Castara, by William Habington

English Reprints

WILLIAM HABINGTON

Castara

THE THIRD EDITION OF 1640; EDITED AND
COLLATED WITH THE EARLIER ONES
OF 1634, 1635

EDITED BY
EDWARD ARBER
F.S.A. ETC. LATE EXAMINER IN ENGLISH
LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE
TO THE UNIVERSITY OF
LONDON

WESTMINSTER
A. CONSTABLE AND CO.
1895

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION.

The old English family of Habingdon, Abingdon, Habington, or Abington traced their pedigree beyond the reign of Henry III., to Philip de Habington, of Abingdon, co. Cambridge: but that branch of the family from which our Poet sprang, descended from Richard Habington, of Brokhampton, whose third son John was coifferer to Queen Elizabeth. This John Habington, our Poet's grand-father, bought Hindlip Hall, an estate beautifully situated about four miles from Worcester. He married twice. By his second wife he had two sons, Thomas; and Edward, who was executed for Babington's plot in 1586.

Anthony-a-Wood gives this account of Thomas Habington. He 'was born at Thorpe near to Chertsey in Surrey, on the 23 Aug. 1560, (at which time and before the manor thereof belonged to his father) and at about 16 years of age he became a commoner of Lincoln Coll. Where spending about three years in academicall studies, was taken thence by his father and sent to the universities of Paris and Rheimes in France. After some time spent there in good letters, he return'd into England, and expressing and shewing himself an adherent to Mary qu. of Scots (who plotted with Anth. Babington against qu. Elizabeth) was committed prisoner to the Tower of London, where continuing six years, he profited more in that time in several sorts of learning, then he had before in all his life. Afterwards he retired to Hendlip (the manor of which his father had settled upon him) took to wife Mary the eldest daughter of Edward lord Morley by Elizabeth his wife, daughter and sole heir of Sir William Stanley knight, lord Mounteagle; and at riper years survey'd Worcestershire, made a collection of most of its antiquities from records, registers, evidences both private and public, monumental inscriptions and arms.... At length, after he had lived to the age of 87 years, surrendred up his pious soul to God at Hendlip near Worcester on the 8th October 1647, and was buried by his father in a vault under the chancel of the church there.' Ath. Oxon. iii. 222. Ed. 1817.

Hindlip Hall was full of lurking places. T. Nash in his Hist. of Worc. i. 585-7, gives a transcript of Ashmole's MSS. Vol. 804, fol. 93, at Oxford: which is a most graphic description of a search, for eleven nights and twelve days, in Jan. 1605, through the house: wherein Garnett the Jesuit and others were discovered, who were afterwards executed.

3. Wood's account of our Poet is perhaps the most authentic. "William Habington, was born at Hendlip, on the fourth [So have I been instructed by letters from his son Tho. Habington esq.: dated 5 Jan. 1672.] (some say the fifth) day of November 1605, educated in S. Omers and Paris; in the first of which he was earnestly invited to take upon him the habit of the Jesuits, but by excuses got free and left them. After his return from Paris, being then at man's estate, he was instructed at home in matters of history by his father, and became an accomplished gentleman.... This person, Will. Habington, who did then run with the times, and was not unknown [what does Wood mean by this?] to Oliver the usurper, died on the 30th of November 1654, and was buried in the vault before-mentioned by the bodies of his father and grand-father. The MSS. which he (and his father) left behind, are in the hands of his son Thomas, and might be made useful for the public, if in others."—Ath. Oxon. iii. 223. Ed. 1817.

4. The Habingtons were connected with the Talbots through the above Richard Habington's second son Richard Habington, whose grand-daughter Eleanor Baskerville married John Talbot of Longdon: and became the mother of (1) John, Lord Talbot 10th Earl of Shrewsbury, who succeeded his bachelor uncle George Talbot, the 9th Earl (lamented by our Poet at p. [77]) on his death, 2d April 1630: (2) of George Talbot, our author's bosom friend, who died young and unmarried; and of other children.

5. The second son of the Earl of Pembroke, Sir William Herbert, was created on 2d April 1629, 1st Baron Powis. He had three children by Eleanor, youngest daughter of Henry Percy, 10th Earl of Northumberland, Sir Percy Herbert, Catherine Herbert, and Lucy Herbert. This Lucy Herbert is Castara.

6. A concurrence of allusions would seem to fix Habington's marriage with Lucy Herbert, between 1630 and 1633: later than which it cannot be: as the anniversary of his wedding day is celebrated in verse, at p. [80]. Most of the poems relate to

'those of my blood

And my Castara's.'

There is in their arrangement, a slight thread of continuity. We are to realize the young Englishman, of good family, possibly not unhandsome, wooing—with a culture and grace acquired in France—the young English beauty: possibly under some disadvantage, being neither possessed of high station nor large fortune; and the lady's father too having just been made a Peer. The wooing beginning in town migrates to Marlow.

See, he from Marlow sends

His eyes to Seymours.         p. [41].

The lovers meeting 'under the kind shade of this tree' is noticed. In sum, the details of a pure courtship leading up to a happy marriage.

In "Wits Recreations, Selected [by the bookseller Humphry Blunden] from the Finest Fancies of Moderne Muses. London, 1640:" is the following.

19. To Mr William Habington on his Castara, a Poem.

Thy Muse is chaste and thy Castara too,

'Tis strange at Court, and thou hadst power to woo

And to obtain (what others were deny'd)

The fair Castara for thy vertuous bride:

Enjoy what you dare wish, and may there be,

Fair issues branch from both, to honor thee.

Again, the after incidents of life are alluded to, in the poems; Castara has a fever but she recovers, she mourns over the loss of friends, and the like: while, the brightness and fancifulness of this earlier poesy but reflect the happiness of the Poet's home.

7. There are also songs of Friendship. As where he reproaches his bosom friend Talbot for not having seen him for three days, at p. [39], or where he consoles him for the hard usage he has received from that jilt Astrodora, at p. [82]: and most of all, in the eight passionate Elegies over his decease.

8. Occasionally there is a bit of lashing satire, as that against the cravings of Poets, at p. [50]: or of dry humour, as in

Come therefore blest even in the Lollards zeale

Who canst with conscience safe, 'fore hen and veale

Say grace in Latine, while I faintly sing

A Penitentiall verse in oyle and Ling.     p. [64].

9. Lastly: strangely intermingled are Requiems over the mortality of Man, the vanity and uncertainty of all things; leading almost to a disgust with life. Of this he thus gives the key-note in saying at p. [114], 'When the necessities of nature returne him downe to earth, he esteemes it a place he is condemned to.... To live he knows a benefit, and the contempt of it ingratitude, and therefore loves, but not doates on life.' To this frame of thought may be opposed the keen wise saying of a great contemporary: Selden.

"Whilst you are upon Earth enjoy the good things that are here (to that end were they given) and be not melancholly, and wish yourself in Heaven. If a King should give you the keeping of a Castle, with all things belonging to it, Orchards, Gardens, &c., and bid you use them; withal promise you that after twenty years to remove you to Court, and to make you a Privy Councellor. If you should neglect your Castle, and refuse to eat of those fruits, and sit down, and whine, and wish you were a Privy Councellor, do you think the King would be pleased with you?"—Table Talk, p. 84. Ed. 1867.

Our wisdom is to recognise the representations of Habington, and to live in the spirit of Selden: thus 'using the world as not abusing it.'

William Habington's works were published in the following order:—

BIBLIOGRAPHY.

With First Lines, &c. of the three first editions, showing the growth of the work.

(a) Issues in the Author's lifetime.

I. As a separate publication.

1. "CASTARA, &c. LONDON, Printed by Anne Griffin for William Cooke, and are to be sold at his shop neare Furnivals Inne gate in Holburne. 1634. 4to."

Perfectly anonymous: all names being represented by initials. It consists of only two Parts, each having a separate title page; in which Parts are contained the following:

2. "CASTARA, &c. The Second Edition. Corrected and Augmented. London. Printed by B. A. and T. F. for Will. Cooke, and are to bee sold at his shop neare Furnivals-Inne Gate in Holburne, 1635. 12mo."

In this second edition, the authorship is avowed by means of a new heading to G. Talbot's poem, at p. [14]. It still consists of but two Parts, each with a separate title: but is augmented by three Characters in prose and twenty-six poems; all by Habington.

3. 1640. Third Edition in 12mo: with Titles, Characters, and Poems arranged in the order here reprinted. For titles, see pp. 9, 55, 111. There are no further additions to the first two parts: but there is added an entire Third Part.

II. With other Works.

None.

(b) Issues since the Author's Death.

I. As a separate publication.

6. 14 April 1870. London. 1 vol. 8vo. English Reprints: see title at p. [1]. This Edition follows No. 3 as to the arrangement of the Poems, &c.: but has been corrected with the earlier editions; when ever in spelling or punctuation the former were the better readings. In doubtful cases, the earlier variations are shown in footnotes.

5. [1812.] Bristol. 1 vol. 8vo. "Habington's Castara, with a preface and notes by Charles A. Elton." [A reprint of No. 3.]

II. With other Works.

4. London. 1810. 21 vols. 8vo. The Works of the English Poets. Ed. by A. Chalmers, F.S.A. Vol. iv. 437-482 contains a Reprint of No. 3.

III. Selections, &c.

One or more of these Poems will be found in the Selections of Ellis, H. Headley, The Lyre of Love, E. Sandford's British Poets, &c. &c.

Castara: The First Part

CASTARA:

—Carmina non prius
Audita, Musarum
facerdos Virginibus.—

The third Edition.
Corrected and augmented

LONDON
Printed by T. Cotes, for Will.
Cooke: and are to be sold at his
Shop neere Fernivals-Inne Gate
in Holburne. 1640.

The Author.

The Presse hath gathered into one, what fancie had scattered in many loose papers. To write this, love stole some houres from businesse, and my more serious study. For though Poetry may challenge if not priority, yet equality with the best Sciences, both for antiquity and worth; I never set so high a rate upon it, as to give my selfe entirely up to its devotion. It hath too much ayre, and (if without offence to our next transmarine neighbour,) [1]wantons too much according to the French garbe. And when it is wholly imployed in the soft straines of love, his soule who entertaines it, loseth much of that strength which should confirme him man. The nerves of judgement are weakned most by its dalliance, and when woman, (I meane onely as she is externally faire) is the supreme object of wit, we soone degenerate into effeminacy. For the religion of fancie declines into a mad superstition, when it[2] adores that Idoll which is not secure from age and sicknesse. Of such heathens, our times afford us a pittyed multitude, who can give no nobler testimony of twenty yeares imployment, then some loose coppies of lust happily exprest. Yet these the common people of wit blow up with their breath of praise, and honour with the Sacred name of Poets: To which as I beleeve they can never have any just claime, so shall I not dare by this essay to lay any title, since more sweate and oyle he must spend, who shall arrogate so excellent an attribute. Yet if the innocency of a chaste Muse shall bee more acceptable, and weigh heavier in the ballance of esteeme, than a fame, begot in adultery of study; I doubt I shall leave them no hope of competition. For how unhappie soever I may be in the elocution, I am sure the Theame is worthy enough. In all those flames in which I burnt I never felt a wanton heate, nor was my invention ever sinister from the straite way of chastity. And when love builds upon that rocke, it may safely contemne the battery of the waves, and threatnings of the wind. Since time, that makes a mockery of the firmest structures shall it selfe be ruinated, before that be demolisht. Thus was the foundation layd. And though my eye in its survey, was satisfi'd, even to curiosity, yet did not my search rest there. The Alabaster, Ivory, Porphir, Jet, that lent an admirable beauty to the outward building, entertained me with but a halfe pleasure, since they stood there onely to make sport for ruine. But when my soule grew acquainted with the owner of that mansion; I found that Oratory was dombe when it began to speak her, and wonder (which must necessarily seize the best at that time) a lethargie, that dulled too much the faculties of the minde, onely fit to busie themselves in discoursing her perfections, Wisdome, I encounter'd there, that could not spend it selfe since it affected silence, attentive onely to instructions, as if all her sences had beene contracted into hearing: Innocencie, so not vitiated by conversation with the world, that the subtile witted of her sex, would have tearm'd it ignorance: Wit, which seated it selfe most in the apprehension, and if not inforc't by good manners, would scarce have gain'd the name of affability: Modesty, so timorous, that it represented a besieg'd Citty, standing watchfully upon her guard, strongest in the loyalty to her Prince. In a word, all those vertues which should restore woman to her primitive state of beauty, fully adorn'd her. But I shall be censur'd, in labouring to come nigh the truth, guilty of an indiscreet Rhetoricke. However such I fancied her, for to say shee is, or was such, were to play the Merchant, and boast too much the value of a Jewell I possesse, but have no minde to part with. And though I appeare to strive against the streame of best wits, in erecting the selfe same Altar, both to chastity and love; I will for once adventure to doe well, without a president. Nor if my rigid friend question superciliously the setting forth of these Poems, will I excuse my selfe (though justly perhaps I might) that importunity prevail'd, and cleere judgements advis'd. This onely I dare say, that if they are not strangled with envie of the present, they may happily live in the not dislike of future times. For then partiality ceaseth, and vertue is without the idolatry of her clients, esteemed worthy honour. Nothing new is free from detraction, and when Princes alter customes even heavie to the subject, best ordinances are interpreted innovations. Had I slept in the silence of my acquaintance, and affected no study beyond that which the chase or field allowes, Poetry had then beene no scandall upon me, and the love of learning no suspition of ill husbandry. But what malice, begot in the Country upon ignorance, or in the City upon Criticisme, shall prepare against me, I am armed to endure. For as the face of vertue lookes faire without the adultery of Art, so fame needes no ayde from rumour to strengthen her selfe. If these lines want that courtship, (I will not say flattery) which insinuates it selfe into the favour of great men, best; they partake of my modesty. If Satyre to win applause with the envious multitude; they expresse my content, which maliceth none, the fruition of that, they esteeme happie. And if not too indulgent to what is my owne; I thinke even these verses will have that proportion in the worlds opinion, that heaven hath allotted me in fortune; not so high, as to be wondred at, nor so low as to be contemned.

[1] she wantons too much. 1635.

[2] she adores. 1635.

[3]To his best friend and Kinsman
William Habington, Esquire.

Not in the silence of content and store

Of private sweets ought thy Muse charme no more

Then thy Castara's eare. 'Twere wrong such gold

Should not like Mines, (poore nam'd to this) behold

It selfe a publike joy. Who her restraine,

Make a close prisoner of a Soveraigne.

Inlarge her then to triumph. While we see

Such worth in beauty, such desert in thee,

Such mutuall flames betweene you both, as show

How chastity, though yce, like love can glow,

Yet stand a Virgin: How that full content

By vertue is to soules united, lent,

Which proves all wealth is poore, all honours are

But empty titles, highest power but care,

That quits not cost. Yet Heaven to Vertue kind,

Hath given you plenty to suffice a minde

That knowes but temper. For beyond your state

May be a prouder, not a happier Fate.

I Write not this in hope t'incroach on fame,

Or adde a greater lustre to your name.

Bright in it selfe enough. We two are knowne

To th' World, as to our selves, to be but one

In blood as study: And my carefull love

Did never action worth my name, approve

Which serv'd not thee. Nor did we ere contend,

But who should be best patterne of a friend.

Who read thee, praise thy fancie, and admire

Thee burning with so high and pure a fire,

As reaches heaven it selfe. But I who know

Thy soule religious to her ends, where grow

No sinnes by art or custome, boldly can

Stile thee more than good Poet, a good man.

Then let thy temples shake off vulgar bayes,

Th' hast built an Altar which enshrines thy praise:

And to the faith of after time commends

Yee the best paire of lovers, us of friends.

[4]George Talbot.

[3] To his best friend and kinsman. On his Castara. 1634.

[4] G. T. 1634.

A Mistris

Is the fairest treasure, the avarice of Love can covet; and the onely white, at which he shootes his arrowes, nor while his aime is noble, can he ever hit upon repentance. She is chaste, for the devill enters the Idoll and gives the Oracle, when wantonnesse possesseth beauty, and wit maintaines it lawfull. She is as faire as Nature intended her, helpt perhaps to a more pleasing grace by the sweetnesse of education, not by the flight of Art. She is young, for a woman past the delicacie of her spring, may well move by vertue to respect, never by beauty to affection. Shee is innocent even from the knowledge of sinne, for vice is too strong to be wrastled with, and gives her frailty the foyle. She is not proude, though the amorous youth interpret her modestie to that sence; but in her vertue weares so much Majestie, lust dares not rebell, nor though masqued, under the pretence of love, capitulate with her. She entertaines not every parley offer'd, although the Articles pretended to her advantage: advice and her own feares restraine her, and woman never owed ruine to too much caution. She glories not in the plurality of servants, a multitude of adorers heaven can onely challenge, and it is impietie in her weakenesse to desire superstition from many. She is deafe to the whispers of love, and even on the marriage houre can breake off, without the least suspition of scandall, to the former liberty of her carriage. She avoydes a too neere conversation with man, and like the Parthian overcomes by flight. Her language is not copious but apposit, and she had rather suffer the reproach of being dull company, than have the title of Witty, with that of Bold and Wanton. In her carriage she is sober, and thinkes her youth expresseth life enough, without the giddy motion, fashion of late hath taken up. She danceth to the best applause but doates not on the vanity of it, nor licenceth an irregular meeting to vaunt the levity of her skill. She sings, but not perpetually, for she knowes, silence in woman is the most perswading oratory. She never arriv'd to so much familiarity with man as to know the diminutive of his name, and call him by it; and she can show a competent favour: without yeelding her hand to his gripe. Shee never understood the language of a kisse, but at salutation, nor dares the Courtier use so much of his practised impudence as to offer the rape of it from her: because chastity hath writ it unlawfull, and her behaviour proclaimes it unwelcome. She is never sad, and yet not jiggish; her conscience is cleere from guilt, and that secures her from sorrow. She is not passionately in love with poetry, because it softens the heart too much to love; but she likes the harmony in the Composition; and the brave examples of vertue celebrated by it, she preposeth to her imitation. She is not vaine in the history of her gay kindred or acquaintance; since vertue is often tenant to a cottage, and familiarity with greatnesse (if worth be not transcendant above the title) is but a glorious servitude, fooles onely are willing to suffer. She is not ambitious to be prais'd, and yet vallues death beneath infamy. And Ile conclude, (though the next sinod of Ladies condemne this character as an heresie broacht by a Precision) that onely she who hath as great a share in vertue as in beauty, deserves a noble love to serve her, and a free Poesie to speake her.

Fifty-seven Poems, chiefly on Love and Courtship.

To Castara.
A Sacrifice.

Let the chaste Phœnix from the flowry East,

Bring the sweete treasure of her perfum'd nest,

As incense to this Altar, where the name

Of my Castara's grav'd by th' hand of fame.

Let purer Virgins, to redeeme the aire

From loose infection, bring their zealous prayer,

T' assist at this great feast: where they shall see,

What rites Love offers up to Chastity.

Let all the amorous Youth, whose faire desire

Felt never warmth, but from a noble fire,

Bring hither their bright flames: which here shall shine

As Tapers fixt about Castara's shrine.

While I the Priest, my untam'd heart, surprise,

And in this Temple mak't her sacrifice.

To Castara,
Praying.

I saw Castara pray, and from the skie,

A winged legion of bright Angels flie

To catch her vowes, for feare her Virgin prayer

Might chance to mingle with impurer aire.

To vulgar eyes, the sacred truth I write,

May seeme a fancie. But the Eagles sight

Of Saints, and Poets, miracles oft view,

Which to dull Heretikes appeare untrue.

Faire zeale begets such wonders. O divine

And purest beauty; let me thee enshrine

In my devoted soule, and from thy praise,

T' enrich my garland, pluck religious Bayes.

Shine thou the starre by which my thoughts shall move,

Best subject of my pen, Queene of my love.

To Roses in the bosome of Castara.

Yee blushing Virgins happie are

In the chaste Nunn'ry of her brests,

For hee'd prophane so chaste a faire,

Who ere should call them Cupids nests.

Transplanted thus how bright yee grow,

How rich a perfume doe yee yeeld?

In some close garden, Cowslips so

Are sweeter then ith' open field.

In those white Cloysters live secure

From the rude blasts of wanton breath,

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,

Which guilty of no crime, doth onely heare

The Vowes of recluse Nuns, and th' An'thrits prayer;

And by thy chaster selfe; My fervent zeale

Like mountaine yee, which the North winds congeale,

To purest Christall, feeles no wanton fire.

But as the humble Pilgrim, (whose desire

Blest in Christs cottage, view by Angels hands,

Transported from sad Bethlem,) wondring stands

At the great miracle: So I at thee,

Whose beauty is the shrine of chastity.

Thus my bright Muse in a new orbe shall move,

And even teach Religion how to love.

To Castara,
Of his being in Love.

Where am I? not in Heaven: for oh I feele

The stone of Sisiphus, Ixions wheele;

And all those tortures, Poets (by their wine

Made judges) laid on Tantalus, are mine.

Not yet am I in hell; for still I stand,

Though giddy in my passion, on firme land,

And still behold the seasons of the yeare,

Springs in my hope, and Winters in my feare.

And sure I'me 'bove the earth: For th' highest star

Shoots beames, but dim to what Castara's are,

And in her sight and favour I even shine

In a bright orbe beyond the Christalline.

If then Castara I in Heaven nor move,

Nor Earth, nor Hell; where am I but in Love?

To my honoured Friend, M^r. E. P.

Not still ith' shine of Kings. Thou dost retire

Sometime to th' Holy shade, where the chaste quire

Of Muses doth the stubborne Panther awe,

And give the wildernesse of his nature law.

The wind his chariot stops: Th' attentive rocke

The rigor doth of its creation mocke,

And gently melts away: Argus to heare

The musicke, turnes each eye into an eare.

To welcome thee, Endymion, glorious they

Triumph to force these creatures disobey

What nature hath enacted. But no charme

The Muses have these monsters can disarme

Of their innated rage: No spell can tame

The North-winds fury, but Castara's name.

Climbe yonder forked hill, and see if there

Ith' barke of every Daphne, not appeare

Castara written; And so markt by me,

How great a Prophet growes each Virgin tree?

Lie downe, and listen what the sacred spring

In her harmonious murmures, strives to sing

To th' neighb'ring banke, ere her loose waters erre

Through common channels; sings she not of her?

Behold yond' violet, which such honour gaines,

That growing but to emulate her veines,

It's azur'd like the skie: when she doth bow

T' invoke Castara, heav'n perfumes her vow.

The trees the water, and the flowers adore

The Deity of her sex, and through each pore

Breath forth her glories. But unquiet love

[5]To make thy passions so uncourtly prove,

As if all eares should heare her praise alone.

Now listen thou; Endymion sings his owne.

[5] To make affection so ill-nurtur'd prove. 1634, 1635.

To Castara.

Doe not their prophane Orgies heare,

Who but to wealth no altars reare,

The soule's oft poys'ned through the eare.

Castara rather seeke to dwell

Ith' silence of a private cell.

Rich discontent's a glorious hell.

Yet Hindlip doth not want extent

Of roome (though not magnificent)

To give free welcome to content.

There shalt thou see the earely Spring,

That wealthy stocke of nature bring,

Of which the Sybils bookes did sing.

From fruitlesse Palmes shall honey flow,

And barren Winter Harvest show,

While Lilies in his bosome grow,

No North-winde shall the corne infest,

But the soft spirit of the East,

Our sent with perfum'd banquets feast.

A Satyre here and there shall trip,

In hope to purchase leave to sip

Sweete Nectar from a Fairies lip.

The Nimphs with quivers shall adorne

Their active sides, and rouse the morne

With the shrill musicke of their horne.

Wakened with which, and viewing thee,

Faire Daphne her faire selfe shall free,

From the chaste prison of a tree:

And with Narcissus (to thy face

Who humbly will ascribe all grace)

Shall once againe pursue the chase.

So they, whose wisdome did discusse

Of these as fictions: shall in us

Finde, they were more then fabulous.

To Castara,
Softly singing to her selfe.

Sing forth sweete Cherubin (for we have choice

Of reasons in thy beauty and the voyce,

To name thee so, and scarce appeare prophane)

Sing forth, that while the orbs celestiall straine

To eccho thy sweete note, our humane eares

May then receive the Musicke of the Spheares.

But yet take heede, lest if the Swans of Thames,

That adde harmonious pleasure to the streames,

Oth' sudden heare thy well-divided breath,

Should listen, and in silence welcome death:

And ravisht Nightingales, striving too high

To reach thee, in the emulation dye.

And thus there will be left no bird to sing

Farewell to th' Waters, welcome to the Spring.

To a Wanton.

In vaine faire sorceresse, thy eyes speake charmes,

In vaine thou mak'st loose circles with thy armes.

I'me 'bove thy spels. No magicke him can move,

In whom Castara hath inspir'd her love.

As she, keepe thou strict cent'nell o're thy eare,

Lest it the whispers of soft Courtiers heare;

Reade not his raptures, whose invention must

Write journey worke, both for his Patrons lust,

And his owne plush: let no admirer feast

His eye oth' naked banquet of thy brest.

If this faire president, nor yet my want

Of love, to answer thine, make thee recant

Thy sorc'ries; Pity shall to justice turne,

And judge thee, witch, in thy owne flames to burne.

To the Honourable my much honoured friend, R. B. Esquire.

While you dare trust the loudest tongue of fame,

The zeale you heare your Mistresse to proclaim

To th' talking world: I in the silent'st grove,

Scarce to my selfe dare whisper that I love.

Thee, titles Brud'nell, riches thee adorne,

And vigorous youth to vice not headlong borne

By th' tide of custome: Which I value more

Then what blind superstitious fooles adore,

Who greatnesse in the chaire of blisse enthrone.

Greatnesse we borrow, Vertue is our owne.

In thy attempt be prosperous, and when ere

Thou shalt prefix the houre; may Hymen weare

His brightest robe; where some fam'd Persian shall

Worke by the wonder of her needle all

The nuptiall joyes; which (if we Poets be

True Prophets) bounteous heaven designes for thee.

I envie not, but glory in thy fate,

While in the narrow limits of my state

I bound my hopes. Which if Castara daigne

Once to entitle hers; the wealthiest graine

My earth, untild shall beare; my trees shall grone

Under their fruitfull burthen, and at one

And the same season, Nature forth shall bring

Riches of Autumne, pleasures of the Spring.

But digge, and thou shalt finde a purer Mine

Then th' Indians boast: Taste of this generous Vine,

And her blood sweeter will than Nectar prove.

Such miracles wait on a noble love.

But should she scorne my suite, I'le tread that path

Which none but some sad Fairy beaten hath.

There force wrong'd Philomel, hearing my mone,

To sigh my greater griefes, forget her owne.

To Castara,
Inquiring why I loved her.

Why doth the stubborne iron prove

So gentle to th' magnetique stone?

How know you that the orbs doe move;

With musicke too? since heard of none?

And I will answer why I love.

'Tis not thy vertues, each a starre

Which in thy soules bright spheare doe shine,

Shooting their beauties from a farre,

To make each gazers heart like thine:

Our vertues often Meteors are.

'Tis not thy face, I cannot spie

When Poets weepe some Virgins death,

That Cupid wantons in her eye,

Or perfumes vapour from her breath,

And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie.[6]

Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne're

So vaine as in that to delight:

Which ballance it, no weight doth beare,

Nor yet is object to the sight,

But onely fils the vulgar eare.

Nor yet thy fortunes: Since I know

They in their motion like the Sea:

Ebbe from the good, to the impious flow:

And so in flattery betray,

That, raising they but overthrow.

And yet these attributes might prove

Fuell enough t' enflame desire;

But there was something from above,

Shot without reasons guide, this fire.

I know, yet know not, why I love.

[6] And there must once thy beauty lie. 1634, 1635.

To Castara,
Looking upon him.

Transfix me with that flaming dart

Ith' eye, or brest, or any part,

So thou, Castara, spare my heart.

The cold Cymerian by that bright

Warme wound, ith' darknesse of his night,

Might both recover heat, and light.

The rugged Scythian gently move,

Ith' whispering shadow of some grove,

That's consecrate to sportive Love.

December see the Primrose grow,

The Rivers in soft murmurs flow,

And from his head shake off his snow.

And crooked age might feele againe

Those heates, of which youth did complaine,

While fresh blood swels each withered veyne.

For the bright lustre of thy eyes,

Which but to warme them would suffice,

May burne me to a sacrifice.

[7]To the right honourable the Countesse of Ar.

Wing'd with delight (yet such as still doth beare

Chaste vertues stamp) those Children of the yeere

The dayes, haste nimbly; and while as they flie,

Each of them with their predecessors vie,

Which yeelds most pleasure; you to them dispence,

What Time lost with his cradle, innocence.

So I (if fancie not delude my sight,)

See often the pale monarch of the night,

Diana, 'mong her nimphs. For every quire

Of vulgar starres, who lend their weaker fire

To conquer the nights chilnesse, with their Queene,

In harmelesse revels tread the happy greene.

But I who am proscrib'd by tyrant love,

Seeke out a silent exile in some grove,

Where nought except a solitary Spring,

Was ever heard, to which the Nimphs did sing

Narcissus obsequies: For onely there

Is musique apt to catch an am'rous eare.

Castara! oh my heart! How great a flame

Did even shoot into me with her name?

Castara hath betray'd me to a zeale

Which thus distracts my hopes. Flints may conceale

In their cold veynes a fire. But I whose heart

By Love's dissolv'd, ne're practis'd that cold art.

But truce thou warring passion, for I'le now

Madam to you addresse this solemne vow.

By Vertue and your selfe (best friends) I finde

In the interiour province of your minde

Such government: That if great men obey

Th' example of your order, they will sway

Without reproofe. For onely you unite

Honour with sweetenesse, vertue with delight.

[7] To the right honourable my very good Lady, Anne Countesse of Ar. 1634, 1635.

Upon Castara's frowne or smile.

Learned shade of Tycho Brache, who to us,

The stars propheticke language didst impart,

And even in life their mysteries discusse:

Castara hath o'rethrowne thy strongest art.

When custome struggles from her beaten path,

Then accidents must needs uncertaine be.

For if Castara smile; though winter hath

Lock't up the rivers: Summer's warme in me.

And Flora by the miracle reviv'd,

Doth even at her owne beauty wondring stand.

But should she frowne, the Northerne wind arriv'd,

In midst of Summer, leads his frozen band:

Which doth to yce my youthfull blood congeale,

Yet in the midst of yce, still flames my zeale.

To Castara,
All fortunes.

Ye glorious wits, who finde then Parian stone,

A nobler quarry to build trophies on,

Purchast 'gainst conquer'd time; Go court loud fame,

He wins it, who but sings Castara's name?

Aspiring soules, who grow but in a Spring,

Forc't by the warmth of some indulgent King:

Know if Castara smile: I dwell in it,

And vie for glory with the Favorit.

Ye sonnes of avarice, who but to share

Uncertaine treasure with a certaine care.

Tempt death in th' horrid Ocean: I, when ere

I but approach her, find the Indies there.

Heaven brightest Saint, kinde to my vowes made thee

Of all ambition courts, th' Epitome.

Upon thought Castara may dye.

If she should dye, (as well suspect we may,

A body so compact should ne're decay)

Her brighter soule would in the Moone inspire

More chastity, in dimmer starres more fire.

You twins of Læda (as your parents are

In their wild lusts) may grow irregular

Now in your motion: for the marriner

Henceforth shall onely steere his course by her.

And when the zeale of after time[8] shall spie

Her uncorrupt ith' happy marble lie;

The roses in her cheekes unwithered,

'Twill turne to love, and dote upon the dead.

For he who did to her in life dispence

A heaven, will banish all corruption thence.

[8] times. 1634.

Time to the moments, on sight of Castara.

You younger children of your father stay,

Swift flying moments (which divide the day

And with your number measure out the yeare

In various seasons) stay and wonder here.

For since my cradle, I so bright a grace

Ne're saw, as you see in Castara's face;

Whom nature to revenge some youthfull crime

Would never frame, till age had weakened Time.

Else spight of fate, in some faire forme of clay

My youth I'de bodied, throwne my sythe away,

And broke my glasse. But since that cannot be,

I'le punish Nature for her injurie.

On nimble moments in your journey flie,

Castara shall like me, grow old, and die.

To a friend inquiring her name, whom he loved.

Fond Love himselfe hopes to disguise

From view, if he but covered lies,

Ith' veile of my transparent eyes.

Though in a smile himselfe he hide,

Or in a sigh, thou art so tride

In all his arts, hee'le be discride.

I must confesse (Deare friend) my flame,

Whose boasts Castara so doth tame,

That not thy faith, shall know her name.

Twere prophanation of my zeale,

If but abroad one whisper steale,

They love betray, who him reveale.

In a darke cave which never eye

Could by his subtlest ray descry,

It doth like a rich minerall lye.

Which is she with her flame refine,

I'de force it from that obscure Mine,

And then it like pure should shine.

A Dialogue betweene Hope and Feare.

To Cupid,
Upon a dimple in Castara's cheeke.

Nimble boy in thy warme flight,

What cold tyrant dimm'd thy sight?

Hadst thou eyes to see my faire,

Thou wouldst sigh thy selfe to ayre:

Fearing to create this one,

Nature had her selfe undone.

But if you when this you heare

Fall downe murdered through your eare,

Begge of Jove that you may have

In her cheeke a dimpled grave.

Lilly, Rose, and Violet,

Shall the perfum'd Hearse beset

While a beauteous sheet of Lawne,

O're the wanton corps is drawne:

And all lovers use this breath;

"Here lies Cupid blest in death."

Upon Cupid's death and buriall in Castara's cheeke.

Cupids dead. Who would not dye,

To be interr'd so neere her eye?

Who would feare the sword, to have

Such an Alabaster grave?

O're which two bright tapers burne,

To give light to the beauteous Urne.

At the first Castara smil'd,

Thinking Cupid her beguil'd,

Onely counterfeiting death.

But when she perceiv'd his breath

Quite expir'd: the mournefull Girle,

To entombe the boy in Pearle,

Wept so long; till pittious Jove,

From the ashes of this Love,

Made ten thousand Cupids rise,

But confin'd them to her eyes:

Where they yet, to shew they lacke

No due sorrow, still weare blacke.

But the blacks so glorious are

Which they mourne in, that the faire

Quires of starres, look pale and fret,

Seeing themselves out shin'd by jet.

To Fame.

Fly on thy swiftest wing, ambitious Fame,

And speake to the cold North Castara's name:

Which very breath will, like the East wind, bring

The temp'rate warmth, and musicke of the Spring.

Then from the Articke to th' Antarticke Pole,

Haste nimbly and inspire a gentler soule,

By naming her, ith' torrid South; that he

May milde as Zephirus coole whispers be.

Nor let the West where heaven already joynes,

The vastest Empire, and the wealthiest Mines:

Nor th' East in pleasures wanton, her condemne,

For not distributing her gifts on them.

For she with want would have her bounty meete.

Loves noble charity is so discreete.

A Dialogue betweene Araphill and Castara.

[9] chased. 1634, 1635.

To Castara,
Intending a journey into the Countrey.

Why haste you hence Castara? can the earth,

A glorious mother, in her flowry birth,

Shew Lillies like thy brow? Can she disclose

In emulation of thy cheeke, a Rose,

Sweete as thy blush? Upon thy selfe then set

Just value, and scorne it, thy counterfet.

The Spring's still with thee; But perhaps the field,

Not warm'd with thy approach, wants force to yeeld,

Her tribute to the Plough; O rather let

Th' ingratefull earth for ever be in debt

To th' hope of sweating industry, than we

Should starve with cold, who have no heat but thee.

Nor feare the publike good. Thy eyes can give

A life to all, who can deserve to live.

Upon Castara's departure.

I am engag'd to sorrow, and my heart

Feeles a distracted rage. Though you depart

And leave me to my feares; let love in spite

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

Purple to th' Violet, blushes to the Rose;

Did never yeeld an odour rich as this.

Why are you then so thrifty of a kisse,

Authoriz'd even by custome? Why doth feare

So tremble on your lip, my lip being neare?

Thinke you I parting with so sad a zeale,

Will act so blacke a mischiefe, as to steale

Thy Roses thence? And they, by this device,

Transplanted: somewhere else force Paradice?

Or else you feare, lest you, should my heart skip

Up to my mouth, t' incounter with your lip,

Might rob me of it: and be judg'd in this,

T' have Judas like betraid me with a kisse.

To Castara,
Looking backe at her departing.

Looke backe Castara. From thy eye

Let yet more flaming arrowes flye.

To live, is thus to burne and dye.

For what might glorious hope desire,

But that thy selfe, as I expire,

Should bring both death and funerall fire?

Distracted Love, shall grieve to see

Such zeale in death: For feare lest he

Himselfe, should be consumed in me.

And gathering up my ashes, weepe,

That in his teares he then may sleepe:

And thus embalm'd, as reliques, keepe.

Thither let lovers pilgrims turne,

And the loose flames in which they burne,

Give up as offerings to my Urne.

That them the vertue of my shrine,

By miracle so long refine;

Till they prove innocent as mine.

Upon Castara's absence.

Tis madnesse to give Physicke to the dead;

Then leave me friends: Yet haply you'd here

A lecture; but I'le not dissected be,

T' instruct your Art by my anatomie.

But still you trust your sense, sweare you discry

No difference in me. All's deceit oth' eye,

Some spirit hath a body fram'd in th' ayre,

Like mine, which he doth to delude you, weare:

Else heaven by miracle makes me survive

My selfe, to keepe in me poore Love alive.

But I am dead, yet let none question where

My best part rests, and with a sigh or teare,

Prophane the Pompe, when they my corps interre,

My soule imparadis'd, for 'tis with her.

To Castara,
Complaining her absence in the Country.

The lesser people of the ayre conspire

To keepe thee from me, Philomel with higher

And sweeter notes, wooes thee to weepe her rape,

Which would appease the gods, and change her shape.

The early Larke, preferring 'fore soft rest

Obsequious duty, leaves his downy nest,

And doth to thee harmonious tribute pay;

Expecting from thy eyes the breake of day.

From which the Owle is frighted, and doth rove

(As never having felt the warmth of love.)

In uncouth vaults, and the chill shades of night,

Nor biding the bright lustre of thy sight.

With him my fate agrees. Not viewing thee

I'me lost in mists, at best, but meteors see.

To Thames.

Swift in thy watry chariot, courteous Thames,

Hast by the happy error of thy streames,

To kisse the banks of Marlow, which doth show

Faire Seymors, and beyond that never flow.

Then summon all thy Swans, that who did give

Musicke to death, may henceforth sing, and live,

For my Castara. She can life restore,

Or quicken them who had no life before.

How should the Poplar else the Pine provoke;

The stately Cedar challenge the rude Oke

To dance at sight of her? They have no sense

From nature given, but by her influence.

[10]If Orpheus did those senslesse creatures move,

He was a Prophet, and fore-sang my love.

[10] If Orpheus did those senslesse creatures stirre,
He was a Prophet, and fore-sang of her. 1634, 1635.

To the right honourable the Earle of Shrewes.[11]

My Muse (great Lord) when last you heard her sing

Did to your Uncles Urne, her off'rings bring:

And if to fame I may give faith, your eares

Delighted in the musicke of her teares.

That was her debt to vertue. And when e're

She her bright head among the clouds shall reare

And adde to th' wondring heavens a new flame,

Shee'le celebrate the Genius of your name.

Wilde with another rage, inspir'd by love,

She charmes the Myrtles of the Idalian grove.

And while she gives the Cyprian stormes a law,

Those wanton Doves which Cythereia draw

Through th' am'rous ayre: Admire what power doth sway

The Ocean, and arrest them in their way.

She sings Castara then. O she more bright,

Than is the starry Senate of the night;

Who in their motion did like straglers erre,

Cause they deriv'd no influence from her,

Who's constant as she's chaste. The Sinne hath beene

Clad like a neighb'ring shepheard often seene

To hunt those Dales, in hope then Daphnes, there

To see a brighter face. Th' Astrologer

In th' interim dyed, whose proud Art could not show

Whence that Ecclipse did on the sudden grow.

A wanton Satyre eager in the chase

Of some faire Nimph, beheld Castara's face,

And left his loose pursuite; who while he ey'd,

Unchastely, such a beauty, glorified

With such a vertue; by heavens great commands

Turn'd marble, and there yet a Statute stands.

As Poet thus. But as a Christian now,

And by my zeale to you (my Lord) I vow,

She doth a flame so pure and sacred move;

In me impiety 'twere not to love.

[11] To the Right Honourable my very good Lord, John Earle of S. 1634, 1635.

To Cupid.
Wishing a speedy passage to Castara.

Thankes Cupid, but the Coach of Venus moves

For me too slow, drawn but by lazie Doves.

I, left a journey my delay should finde,

Will leape into the chariot of the winde.

Swift as the flight of lightning through the ayre,

Hee'le hurry me till I approach the faire

But unkinde Seymors. Thus he will proclaime,

What tribute winds owe to Castara's name.

Viewing this prodigie, astonisht they,

Who first accesse deny'd me, will obey,

With feare what love commands: Yet censure me

As guilty of the blackest sorcery.

But after to my wishes milder prove:

When they know this the miracle of love.

To Castara.
Of Love.

How fancie mockes me? By th' effect I prove,

'Twas am'rous folly, wings ascrib'd to love,

And ore th' obedient elements command.

Hee's lame as he is blinde, for here I stand

Fixt as the earth. Throw then this Idoll downe

Yee lovers who first made it; which can frowne

Or smile but as you please. But I'me untame

In rage. Castara call thou[12] on his name,

And though hee'le not beare up my vowes to thee,

Hee'le triumph to bring downe my Saint to me.

[12] then. 1634.

To the Spring,
Upon the uncertainty of Castara's abode.

Faire Mistresse of[13] the earth, with garlands crown'd

Rise, by a lovers charme, from the parcht ground,

And shew thy flowry wealth: that she, where ere

Her starres shall guide her, meete thy beauties there.

Should she to the cold Northerne climates goe,

Force thy affrighted Lillies there to grow;

Thy Roses in those gelid fields t' appeare;

She absent, I have all their Winter here.

Or if to the torrid Zone her way she bend,

Her the coole breathing of Favonius lend,

Thither command the birds to bring their quires.

That Zone is temp'rate. I have all his fires.

Attend her, courteous Spring, though we should here

Lose by it all the treasures of the yeere.

[13] to. 1634, 1635.

To Reason,
Upon Castara's absence.

With your calme precepts goe, and lay a storme,

In some brest flegmaticke which would conforme

Her life to your cold lawes: In vain y' engage

Your selfe on me. I will obey my rage.

Shee's gone, and I am lost. Some unknowne grove

I'le finde, whereby the miracle of Love

I'le turne t' a fountaine, and divide the yeere,

By numbring every moment with a teare.

Where if Castara (to avoyd the beames

Oth' neighb'ring Sun) shall wandring meete my streames.

And tasting, hope her thirst alaid shall be,

Shee'le feele a sudden flame, and burne like me:

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,

And having too deepe tasted of these streames,

He loves, and amorously courts her beames.

The courteous turtle with a wandring zeale,

Saw how to stone I did my selfe congeale,

And murm'ring askt what power this change did move,

The language of my waters whispered, Love.

And thus transform'd Ile stand, till I shall see,

That heart so ston'd and frozen, thaw'd in thee.

[14] In. 1634.

To Castara,
Upon the disguising his affection.

Pronounce me guilty of a Blacker crime,

Then e're in the large Volume writ by Time.

The sad Historian reades, if not my Art

Dissembles love, to veile an am'rous heart.

For when the zealous anger of my friend

Checkes my unusuall sadnesse: I pretend

To study vertue, which indeede I doe,

He must court vertue who aspires to you.

Or that some friend is dead and then a teare,

A sigh or groane steales from me: for I feare

Lest death with love hath strooke my heart, and all

These sorrowes usher but its funerall.

[15]Which should revive, should there you a mourner be,

And force a nuptiall in an obsequie.

[15] Which would revive, should you there mourner be. 1634, 1635.

To the honourable my honoured kinsman, M^r. G. T.

Thrice hath the pale-fac'd Empresse of the night,

Lent in her chaste increase her borrowed light,

To guide the vowing Mariner: since mute

Talbot th'ast beene, too slothfull to salute

Thy exil'd servant. Labour not t' excuse

This dull neglect: Love never wants a Muse.

When thunder summons from eternall sleepe

Th' imprison'd ghosts, and spreads oth' frighted deepe,

A veile of darknesse; penitent to be

I may forget, yet still remember thee,

Next to my faire, under whose eye-lids move,

In nimble measures beauty, wit, and love.

Nor thinke Castara (though the sexe be fraile,

And ever like uncertaine vessels saile

On th' ocean of their passions; while each wind

Triumphs to see their more uncertaine mind,)

Can be induc't to alter: Every starre

May in its motion grow irregular;

The Sunne forget to yeeld his welcome flame

To th' teeming earth, yet she remaine the same.

And in my armes (if Poets may divine)

I once that world of beauty shall intwine,

And on her lips print volumes of my love,

Without a froward checke, and sweetly move

Ith' Labyrinth of delight. If not, Ile draw

Her picture on my heart, and gently thaw

With warmth of zeale, untill I heaven entreat,

To give true life to th' ayery counterfeit.

Eccho to Narcissus.
In praise of Castara's discreete Love.

Scorn'd in thy watry Urne Narcissus lye,

Thou shalt not force more tribute from my eye

T' increase thy streames: or make me weepe a showre,

To adde fresh beauty to thee, now a flowre.

But should relenting heaven restore thee sence,

To see such wisedome temper innocence,

In faire Castara's love; how she discreet,

Makes caution with a noble freedome meete,

At the same moment; thould'st confesse fond boy,

Fooles onely think them vertuous, who are coy.

And wonder not that I, who have no choyce

Of speech, have praysing her so free a voyce:

Heaven her severest sentence doth repeale,

When to Castara I would speake my zeale.

To Castara,
Being debarr'd her presence.

Banisht from you, I charg'd the nimble winde,

My unseene Messenger, to speake my minde,

In am'rous whispers to you. But my Muse

Lest the unruly spirit should abuse

The trust repos'd in him, sayd it was due

To her alone, to sing my loves to you.

Heare her then speake. Bright Lady, from whose eye

Shot lightning to his heart, who joyes to dye

A martyr in your flames: O let your love

Be great and firme as his: Then nought shall move

Your setled faiths, that both may grow together:

Or if by Fate divided, both may wither.

Hark! 'twas a groane. Ah how sad absence rends

His troubled thoughts! See, he from Marlow sends

His eyes to Seymors. Then chides th' envious trees,

And unkinde distance. Yet his fancie sees

And courts your beauty, joyes as he had cleav'd

Close to you, and then weepes because deceiv'd.

Be constant as y'are faire. For I fore-see

A glorious triumph waits o'th victorie

Your love will purchase, shewing us to prize

A true content. There onely Love hath eyes.

To Seymors,
The house in which Castara lived.

Blest Temple, haile, where the Chast Altar stands,

Which Nature built, but the exacter hands

Of Vertue polisht. Though sad Fate deny

My prophane feete accesse, my vowes shall flye.

May those Musitians, which divide the ayre

With their harmonious breath, their flight prepare,

For this glad place, and all their accents frame,

To teach the Eccho my Castara's name.

The beautious troopes of graces led by love

In chaste attempts, possesse the neighb'ring grove

Where may the Spring dwell still. May every tree

Turne to a Laurell, and propheticke be.

Which shall in its first Oracle divine,

That courteous Fate decree Castara mine.

To the Dew,
In hope to see Castara walking.

Bright Dew which dost the field adorne

As th' earth to welcome in the morne,

Would hang a jewell on each corne.

Did not the pittious night, whose eares

Have oft beene conscious of my feares

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.

And liquid Pearle, hang heavie now

On every grasse that it may bow

In veneration of her brow.

Yet if the wind should curious be,

And were I here, should question thee,

Hee's full of whispers, speak not me.

But if the busie tell-tale day,

Our happy enterview betray;

Lest thou confesse too, melt away.

To Castara.

Stay under the kinde shadow of this tree

Castara, and protect thy selfe and me

From the Sunnes rayes. Which shew the grace of Kings,

A dangerous warmth with too much favour brings.

How happy in this shade the humble Vine

Doth 'bout some taller tree her selfe intwine,

And so growes fruitefull; teaching us her fate

Doth beare more sweetes, though Cedars beare more state:

Behold Adonis in yand' purple flowre,

T'was Venus love: That dew, the briny showre,

His coynesse wept, while strugling yet alive:

Now he repents, and gladly would revive,

By th' vertue of your chaste and powerfull charmes,

To play the modest wanton in your armes.

To Castara,
Ventring to walke too farre in the neighbouring wood.

Dare not too farre Castara, for the shade

This courteous thicket yeelds, hath man betray'd

A prey to wolves: to the wilde powers oth' wood,

Oft travellers pay tribute with their blood.

If carelesse of thy selfe of me take care,

For like a ship where all the fortunes are

Of an advent'rous merchant; I must be,

If thou should'st perish banquerout in thee.

My feares have mockt me. Tygers when they shall

Behold so bright a face, will humbly fall

In adoration of thee. Fierce they are

To the deform'd, obsequious to the faire.

Yet venter not; tis nobler farre to sway

The heart of man, than beasts, who man obey.

Upon Castara's departure.

Vowes are vaine. No suppliant breath

Stayes the speed of swift-heel'd death.

Life with her is gone and I

Learne but a new way to dye.

See the flowers condole, and all

Wither in my funerall.

The bright Lilly, as if day,

Parted with her, fades away.

Violets hang their heads, and lose

All their beauty. That the Rose

A sad part in sorrow beares,

Witnesse all those dewy teares,

Which as Pearle, or Dyamond like,

Swell upon her blushing cheeke.

All things mourne, but oh behold

How the wither'd Marigold

Closeth up now she is gone,

Judging her the setting Sunne.

A Dialogue between Night and Araphill.

To the Right Honourable, the Lady, E. P.

Your judgement's cleere, not wrinckled with the Time,

On th' humble fate: which censures it a crime,

To be by vertue ruin'd. For I know

Y'are not so various as to ebbe and flow

Ith' streame of fortune, whom each faithlesse winde

Distracts, and they who made her, fram'd her blinde.

Possession makes us poore. Should we obtaine

All those bright jems, for which ith' wealthy Maine,

The tann'd slave dives; or in one boundlesse chest

Imprison all the treasures of the West,

We still should want. Our better part's immence,

Not like th' inferiour, limited by sence.

Rich with a little, mutuall love can lift

Us to a greatnesse, whether chance or thrift

E're rais'd her servants. For though all were spent,

That can create an Europe in content.

Thus (Madam) when Castara lends an eare

Soft to my hope, I Loves Philosopher,

Winne on her faith. For when I wondring stand

At th' intermingled beauty of her hand,

(Higher I dare not gaze) to this bright veine

I not ascribe the blood of Charlemaine

Deriv'd by you to her. Or say there are

In that and th'other Marmion, Rosse, and Parr

Fitzhugh, Saint Quintin, and the rest of them

That adde such lustre to great Pembrokes stem.

My love is envious. Would Castara were

The daughter of some mountaine cottager,

Who with his toile worne out, could dying leave

Her no more dowre, than what she did receive

From bounteous nature. Her would I then lead

To th' Temple, rich in her owne wealth; her head

Crown'd with her haires faire treasure; diamonds in

Her brighter eyes; soft Ermines in her skin;

Each Indie in each cheeke. Then all who vaunt,

That fortune, them t' enrich, made others want,

Should set themselves out glorious in her stealth,

And trie if that, could parallel this wealth.

To Castara.
Departing upon the approach of Night.

What should we feare Castara? The coole aire,

That's falne in love, and wanton in thy haire,

Will not betray our whispers. Should I steale

A Nectar'd kisse, the wind dares not reveale

The pleasure I possesse. The wind conspires

To our blest interview, and in our fires

Bath's like a Salamander, and doth sip,

Like Bacchus from the grape, life from thy lip.

Nor thinke of nights approach. The worlds great eye

Though breaking Natures law, will us supply

With his still flaming lampe: and to obey

Our chaste desires, fix here perpetuall day.

But should he set, what rebell night dares rise,

To be subdu'd ith' vict'ry of thy eyes?

An Apparition.

More welcome my Castara, then was light

To the disordered Chaos. O what bright

And nimble chariot brought thee through the aire?

While the amazed stars to see so faire

And pure a beauty from the earth arise,

Chang'd all their glorious bodies into eyes.

O let my zealous lip print on thy hand

The story of my love, which there shall stand

A bright inscription to be read by none,

But who as I love thee, and love but one.

Why vanish you away? Or is my sense

Deluded by my hope? O sweete offence

Of erring nature! And would heaven this had

Beene true; or that I thus were ever mad.

[16]To the Honourable M^r. W^m. E.

Hee who is good is happy. Let the loude

Artillery of Heaven breake through a cloude

And dart its thunder at him; hee'le remaine

Unmov'd, and nobler comfort entertaine

In welcomming th' approach of death; then vice

Ere found in her fictitious Paradise.

Time mocks our youth, and (while we number past

Delights, and raise our appetite to taste

Ensuing) brings us to unflattered age.

Where we are left to satisfie the rage

Of threatning Death: Pompe, beauty, wealth, and all

Our friendships, shrinking from the funerall.

The thought of this begets that brave disdaine

With which thou view'st the world and makes those vaine

Treasures of fancy, serious fooles so court,

And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.

What should we covet here? Why interpose

A cloud twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature chose

Mans soule th' Exchecquer where she'd hoord her wealth,

And lodge all her rich secrets; but by th' stealth

Of our owne vanity, w'are left so poore,

The creature meerely sensuall knowes more.

The learn'd Halcyon by her wisedome finds

A gentle season, when the seas and winds

Are silenc't by a calme, and then brings forth

The happy miracle of her rare birth,

Leaving with wonder all our arts possest,

That view the architecture of her nest.

Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestowe

Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow

By age to dotage: while the sensitive

Part of the World in it's first strength doth live.

Folly? what dost thou in thy power containe

Deserves our study? Merchants plough the maine

And bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more,

By avarice in the possession poore.

And yet that Idoll wealth we all admit

Into the soules great temple. Busie wit

Invents new Orgies, fancy frames new rites

To show it's superstition, anxious nights

Are watcht to win its favour: while the beast

Content with Natures courtesie doth rest.

Let man then boast no more a soule, since he

Hath lost that great prerogative. But thee

(Whom Fortune hath exempted from the heard

Of vulgar men, whom vertue hath prefer'd

Farre higher than thy birth) I must commend,

Rich in the purchase of so sweete a friend.

And though my fate conducts me to the shade

Of humble quiet, my ambition payde

With safe content, while a pure Virgin fame

Doth raise me trophies in Castara's name.

No thought of glory swelling me above

The hope of being famed for vertuous love.

Yet wish I thee, guided by the better starres

To purchase unsafe honour in the warres

Or envied smiles at court; for thy great race,

And merits, well may challenge th' highest place.

Yet know, what busie path so-ere you tread

To greatnesse, you must sleepe among the dead.

[16] To the Honourable my most honoured friend, W^m. E. Esquire. 1635.

To Castara,
The vanity of Avarice.

Harke? how the traytor wind doth court

The Saylors to the maine;

To make their avarice his sport?

A tempest checks the fond disdaine,

They beare a safe though humble port.

Wee'le sit my love upon the shore,

And while proud billowes rise

To warre against the skie, speake ore

Our Loves so sacred misteries.

And charme the Sea to th' calme it had before.

Where's now my pride t' extend my fame

Where ever statues are?

And purchase glory to my name

In the smooth court or rugged warre?

My love hath layd the Devill, I am tame.

I'de rather like the violet grow

Unmarkt i'th shaded vale,

Then on the hill those terrors know

Are breath'd forth by an angry gale,

There is more pompe above, more sweete below.

Love, thou divine Philosopher

(While covetous Landlords rent,

And Courtiers dignity preferre)

Instructs us to a sweete content,

Greatnesse it selfe, doth in it selfe interre.

Castara, what is there above

The treasures we possesse?

We two are all and one, wee move

Like starres in th' orbe of happinesse.

All blessings are Epitomiz'd in Love.

To my most honoured Friend and Kinsman, R. St., Esquire.

It shall not grieve me (friend) though what I write

Be held no wit at Court. If I delight

So farre my sullen Genius, as to raise

It pleasure; I have money, wine, and bayes

Enough to crowne me Poet. Let those wits,

Who teach their Muse the art of Parasits

To win on easie greatnesse; or the yongue

Spruce Lawyer who's all impudence and tongue

Sweat to divulge their fames: thereby the one

Gets fees; the other hyre, I'me best unknowne:

Sweet silence I embrace thee, and thee Fate

Which didst my birth so wisely moderate;

That I by want am neither vilified,

Nor yet by riches flatter'd into pride.

Resolve me friend (for it must folly be

Or else revenge 'gainst niggard Destinie,

That makes some Poets raile?) Why are their times

So steept in gall? Why so obrayde the times?

As if no sin call'd downe heav'ns vengeance more

Then cause the world leaves some few writers poore?

Tis true, that Chapmans reverend ashes must

Lye rudely mingled with the vulgar dust,

Cause carefull heyers the wealthy onely have;

To build a glorious trouble o're the grave.

Yet doe I not despaire, some one may be

So seriously devout to Poesie

As to translate his reliques, and finde roome

In the warme Church, to build him up a tombe.

Since Spencer hath a Stone; and Draytons browes

Stand petrified ith' wall, with Laurell bowes

Yet girt about; and nigh wise Henries herse,

Old Chaucer got a Marble for his verse.

So courteous is Death; Death Poets brings

So high a pompe, to lodge them with their Kings:

Yet still they mutiny. If this man please

His silly Patron with Hyperboles.

Or most mysterious non-sence, give his braine

But the strapado in some wanton straine;

Hee'le sweare the State lookes not on men of parts

And, if but mention'd, slight all other Arts.

Vaine ostentation! Let us set so just

A rate on knowledge, that the world may trust

The Poets Sentence, and not still aver

Each Art is to it selfe a flatterer.

I write to you Sir on this theame, because

Your soule is cleare, and you observe the lawes,

Of Poesie so justly, that I chuse

Yours onely the example to my muse.

And till my browner haire be mixt with gray

Without a blush, Ile tread the sportive way,

My Muse direct; A Poet youth may be,

But age doth dote without Philosophie.

To the World.
The Perfection of Love.

You who are earth, and cannot rise

Above your sence,

Boasting the envyed wealth which lyes

Bright in your Mistris lips or eyes,

Betray a pittyed eloquence.

That which doth joyne our soules, so light

And quicke doth move.

That like the Eagle in his flight,

It doth transcend all humane sight,

Lost in the element of Love.

You Poets reach not this, who sing

The praise of dust

But kneaded, when by theft you bring

The rose and Lilly from the Spring

T' adorne the wrinckled face of lust.

When we speake Love, nor art, nor wit

We glosse upon:

Our soules engender, and beget

Idaas, which you counterfeit

In your dull propagation.

While Time, seven ages shall disperse,

Wee'le talke of Love,

And when our tongues hold no commerse.

Our thoughts shall mutually converse.

And yet the blood no rebell prove.

And though we be of severall kind

Fit for offence:

Yet are we so by Love refin'd,

From impure drosse we are all mind.

Death could not more have conquer'd sence.

How suddenly those flames expire

Which scorch our clay?

Prometheas-like when we steale fire

From heaven 'tis endlesse and intire

It may know age, but not decay.

To the Winter.

Why dost thou looke so pale, decrepit man?

Why doe thy cheeks curle like the Ocean,

Into such furrowes? Why dost thou appeare

So shaking, like an ague to the yeare?

The Sunne is gone. But yet Castara stayes,

And will adde stature to thy Pigmy dayes,

Warme moysture to thy veynes: her smile can bring

Thee the sweet youth, and beauty of the Spring.

Hence with thy palsie then, and on thy head

Weare flowrie chaplets as a bridegroome led

To th' holy Fane. Banish thy aged ruth,

That Virgins may admire and court thy youth.

And the approaching Sunne when she shall finde

A Spring without him, fall, since uselesse, blinde.

Upon a visit to Castara in the Night.

T'was Night: when Phœbe guided by thy rayes,

Chaste as my zeale, with incence of her praise,

I humbly crept to my Castara's shrine.

But oh my fond mistake! for there did shine

A noone of beauty, with such lustre crown'd,

As shewd 'mong th' impious onely night is found.

It was her eyes which like two Diamonds shin'd,

Brightest ith' dark. Like which could th' Indian find,

But one among his rocks, he would out vie

In brightnesse all the Diamonds of the Skie.

But when her lips did ope, the Phœnix nest

Breath'd forth her odours; where might Jove once feast,

Hee'd loath his heavenly surfets: if we dare

Affirme, Jove hath a heaven without my faire.

To Castara,
Of the chastity of his Love.

Why would you blush Castara, when the name

Of love you heare? Who never felt his flame,

Ith' shade of melancholly night doth stray,

A blind Cymmerian banisht from the day.

Let's chastly love Castara, and not soyle

This Virgin lampe, by powring in the oyle

Of impure thoughts. O let us sympathize,

And onely talke ith' language of our eyes,

Like two starres in conjunction. But beware

Lest th' Angels who of love compacted are,

Viewing how chastly burnes thy zealous fire,

Should snatch thee hence, to joyne thee to their quire.

Yet take thy flight: on earth for surely we

So joyn'd, in heaven cannot divided be.

The Description of Castara.

Like the Violet which alone

Prospers in some happy shade;

My Castara lives unknowne,

To no looser eye betray'd.

For shee's to her selfe untrue,

Who delights ith' publicke view.

Such is her beauty, as no arts

Have enricht with borrowed grace.

Her high birth no pride imparts,

For she blushes in her place.

Folly boasts a glorious blood,

She is noblest being good.

Cautious she knew never yet

What a wanton courtship meant:

Not speaks loud to boast her wit,

In her silence eloquent.

Of her selfe survey she takes,

But 'tweene men no difference makes.

She obeyes with speedy will

Her grave Parents wise commands.

And so innocent, that ill,

She nor acts, nor understands.

Womens feete runne still astray.

If once to ill they know the way.

She sailes by that rocke, the Court,

Where oft honour splits her mast:

And retir'dnesse thinks the port,

Where her fame may anchor cast.

Vertue safely cannot sit,

Where vice is enthron'd for wit.

She holds that dayes pleasure best.

Where sinne waits not on delight.

Without maske, or ball, or feast,

Sweetly spends a winters night.

O're that darknesse, whence is thrust,

Prayer and sleepe oft governs lust.

She her throne makes reason climbe,

While wild passions captive lie.

And each article of time,

Her pure thoughts to heaven flie:

All her vowes religious be,

And her love she vowes to me.

FINIS.

Castara: The Second Part

CASTARA

The Second part.

Vatumque lascivos triumphos,
Calcat Amor, pede conjugali.

LONDON
Printed for William Cooke
and are to be sold at his Shop,
neare Furnivals-Inne Gate
in Holborne. 1639.

A Wife

Is the sweetest part in the harmony of our being. To the love of which, as the charmes of Nature inchant us, so the law of grace by speciall priviledge invites us. Without her, Man if piety not restraine him; is the creator of sinne; or, if an innated cold render him not onely the businesse of the present age; the murderer of posterity. She is so religious that every day crownes her a martyr, and her zeale neither rebellious nor uncivill. Shee is so true a friend, her Husband may to her communicate even his ambitions, and if successe Crowne not expectation, remaine neverthelesse uncontemned. Shee is colleague with him in the Empire of prosperity; and a safe retyring place when adversity exiles him from the World. She is so chaste, she never understood the language lust speakes in, nor with a smile applaudes it, although there appeare wit in the Metaphore. Shee is faire only to winne on his affections, nor would she be Mistris of the most eloquent beauty; if there were danger, that might perswade the passionate auditory, to the least irregular thought. Shee is noble by a long descent, but her memory is so evill a herald, shee never boasts the story of her Ancestors. Shee is so moderately rich, that the defect of portion doth neither bring penury to his estate, nor the superfluity licence her to Riot. Shee is liberall, and yet owes not ruine to vanity, but knows Charity, to be the soule of goodnesse, and Vertue without reward often prone to bee her own destroyer. Shee is much at home, and when she visites 'tis for mutuall commerce, not for intelligence. Shee can goe to Court, and returne no passionate doater on bravery; and when shee hath seene the gay things muster up themselves there, she considers them as Cobwebs the Spider vanity hath spunne. Shee is so generall in her acquaintance, that shee is familiar with all whom fame speakes vertuous; but thinkes there can bee no friendship but with one; and therefore hath neither shee friend nor private servant. Shee so squares her passion to her Husbands fortunes, that in the Countrey shee lives without a froward Melancholly, in the town without a fantastique pride. She is so temperate, she never read the modern pollicie of glorious surfeits; since she finds Nature is no Epicure if art provoke her not by curiositie. Shee is inquisitive onely of new wayes to please him, and her wit sayles by no other compasse then that of his direction. Shee lookes upon him as Conjurers upon the Circle, beyond which there is nothing but Death and Hell; and in him shee beleeves Paradice circumscrib'd. His vertues are her wonder and imitation; and his errors, her credulitie thinkes no more frailtie, then makes him descend to the title of Man. In a word, shee so lives that she may dye; and leave no cloude upon her Memory, but have her character nobly mentioned: while the bad Wife is flattered into infamy, and buyes pleasure at too[17] deare a rate, if shee onely payes for it Repentance.

[17] so. 1635.

Fifty Poems, chiefly on Wedded Happiness.

To Castara,
Now possest of her in marriage.

This day is ours. The marriage Angell now

Sees th' Altar in the odour of our vow,

Yeeld a more precious breath, then that which moves

The whispring leaves in the Panchayan groves.

View how his temples shine, on which he weares

A wreath of pearle, made of those precious teares

Thou wept a Virgin, when crosse winds did blow,

Our hopes disturbing in their quiet flow.

But now Castara smile, No envious night

Dares enterpose it selfe, t'ecclipse the light

Of our cleare joyes. For even the lawes divine

Permit our mutuall love[18] so to entwine,

That Kings, to ballance true content, shall say:

Would they were great as we, we blest as they.

[18] loves. 1634.

To Castara,
Upon the mutuall love of their Majesties.

Did you not see, Castara, when the King

Met his lov'd Queene; what sweetnesse she did bring

T' incounter his brave heat; how great a flame

From their brests meeting, on the sudden came?

The Stoike, who all easie passion flies,

Could he but heare the language of their eyes,

As heresies would from his faith remove

The tenets of his sect, and practise love.

The barb'rous nations which supply the earth

With a promiscuous and ignoble birth,

Would by his precedent correct their life,

Each wisely chuse, and chastely love a wife.

[19]Princes example is a law. Then we

If loyall subjects, must true lovers be.

[19] Princes examples are a law. Then we. 1634.

To Zephirus.

Whose whispers soft as those which lovers breath

Castara and my selfe I here bequeath

To the calme wind. For heaven such joyes afford

To her and me, that there can be no third.

And you kinde starres, be thriftier of your light:

Her eyes supply your office with more bright

And constant lustre. Angels guardians, like

The nimbler ship boyes shall be joy'd to strike

Or hoist up saile; Nor shall our vessell move

By Card or Compasse, but a heavenly love.

The courtesie of this more prosperous gale

Shall swell our Canvas, and wee'le swiftly saile

To some blest Port, where ship hath never lane

At anchor, whose chaste soule no foot prophane

Hath ever trod; Where nature doth dispence

Her infant wealth, a beautious innocence.

Pompe (even a burthen to it selfe) nor Pride,

(The Magistrate of sinnes) did e're abide

On that so sacred earth. Ambition ne're,

Built for the sport of ruine, fabrickes there.

Thence age and death are exil'd, all offence

And feare expell'd, all noyse and faction thence.

A silence there so melancholly sweet,

That none but whispring Turtles ever meet.

Thus Paradise did our first Parents wooe,

To harmelesse sweets, at first possest by two.

And o're this second, wee'le usurpe the throne;

Castara, wee'le obey and rule alone.

For the rich vertue of this soyle I feare,

Would be depraved, should but a third be there.

To Castara
in a Trance.

Forsake me not so soone. Castara stay,

And as I breake the prison of my clay,

Ile fill the Canvas with m'expiring breath,

And with thee saile o're the vast maine of death.

Some Cherubin thus as we passe shall play.

Goe happy twins of love; The courteous Sea

Shall smooth her wrinkled brow: the winds shal sleep,

Or onely whisper musicke to the deepe.

Every ungentle rocke shall melt away,

The Syrens sing to please, not to betray.

Th' indulgent skie shall smile: each starry quire

Contend, which shall afford the brighter fire.

While Love the Pilot, steeres his course so even,

Ne're to cast anchor till we reach at Heaven.

To Death,
Castara being sicke.

Hence prophane grim man, nor dare

To approach so neere my faire.

Marble vaults, and gloomy caves,

Church-yards, Charnell houses, graves,

Where the living loath to be,

Heaven hath design'd to thee.

But it needs 'mongst us thou'lt rage,

Let thy fury feed on age.

Wrinckled browes, and withered thighs,

May supply thy sacrifice.

Yet perhaps as thou flew'st by,

A flamed dart shot from her eye,

Sing'd thy wings with wanton fire,

Whence th' art forc't to hover nigh her.

If Love so mistooke his aime,

Gently welcome in the flame:

They who loath'd thee, when they see

Where thou harbor'st, will love thee.

Onely I, such is my fate,

Must thee as a rivall hate,

Court her gently, learne to prove,

Nimble in the thefts of love.

Gaze on th' errors of her haire:

Touch her lip; but oh beware,

Lest too ravenous of thy blisse,

Thou shouldst murder with a kisse.

To Castara,
Inviting her to sleepe.

Sleepe my Castara, silence doth invite

Thy eyes to close up day; though envious night

Grieves Fate should her the sight of them debarre,

For she is exil'd, while they open are.

Rest in thy peace secure. With drowsie charmes,

Kinde sleepe bewitcheth thee into her armes;

And finding where Loves chiefest treasure lies,

Is like a theefe stole under thy bright eyes.

Thy innocence rich as the gaudy quilt

Wrought by the Persian hand, thy dreames from guilt

Exempted, heaven with sweete repose doth crowne

Each vertue, softer then the Swans fam'd downe.

As exorcists wild spirits mildly lay,

May sleepe thy fever calmely chase away.

Upon Castara's recoverie.

She is restor'd to life. Unthrifty Death,

Thy mercie in permitting vitall breath

Backe to Castara, hath enlarg'd us all,

Whome griefe had martyr'd in her funerall.

While others in the ocean of their teares,

Had sinking, wounded the beholders eares,

With exclamations: I without a grone,

Had suddenly congeal'd into a stone:

There stood a statue, till the generall doome;

Had ruin'd time and memory with her tombe.

While in my heart, which marble, yet still bled,

Each Lover might this Epitaph have read.

"Her earth lyes here below; her soul's above,

This wonder speakes her vertue, and my love."

To a Friend,
Inviting him to a meeting upon promise.

May you drinke beare, or that adult'rate wine

Which makes the zeale of Amsterdam divine;

If you make breach of promise. I have now

So rich a Sacke, that even your selfe will bow

T' adore my Genius. Of this wine should Prynne

Drinke but a plenteous glasse, he would beginne

A health to Shakespeares ghost, But you may bring

Some excuse forth, and answer me, the King

To-day will give you audience, or that on

Affaires of state, you and some serious Don

Are to resolve; or else perhaps you'le sin

So farre, as to leave word y'ar not within.

The least of these, will make me only thinke

Him subtle, who can in his closet drinke

Drunke even alone, and thus made wise create

As dangerous plots as the Low Countrey state,

Projecting for such baits, as shall draw ore

To Holland, all the herrings from our shore.

But y'are too full of candour: and I know

Will sooner stones at Sals'burg casements throw,

Or buy up for the silenc'd Levits, all

The rich impropriations, then let pall

So pure Canary, and breake such an oath:

Since charity is sinn'd against in both.

Come therefore blest even in the Lollards zeale,

Who canst with conscience safe, 'fore hen and veale

Say grace in Latine; while I saintly sing

A Penitential verse in oyle and Ling.

Come then, and bring with you prepar'd for fight,

Unmixt Canary, Heaven send both prove right!

This I am sure: My sacke will disingage

All humane thoughts, inspire so high a rage,

That Hypocrene shall henceforth Poets lacke,

Since more Enthusiasmes are in my sacke.

Heightned with which, my raptures shall commend,

How good Castara is, how deare my friend.

To Castara,
Where true happinesse abides.

Castara whisper in some dead mans eare,

This subtill quære; and hee'le point out where,

By answers negative, true joyes abide.

Hee'le say they flow not on th' uncertaine tide

Of greatnesse, they can no firme basis have,

Upon the trepidation of a wave.

Nor lurke they in the caverns of the earth,

Whence all the wealthy minerals draw their birth,

To covetous man so fatall. Nor ith' grace

Love they to wanton of a brighter face,

For th'are above Times battery; and the light

Of beauty, ages cloud will soone be night.

If among these Content, he thus doth prove,

Hath no abode; where dwels it but in Love?

To Castara.

Forsake with me the earth, my faire,

And travell nimbly through the aire,

Till we have reacht th' admiring skies;

Then lend sight to those heavenly eyes

Which blind themselves, make creatures see.

And taking view of all, when we

Shall finde a pure and glorious spheare;

Wee'le fix like starres for ever there.

Nor will we still each other view,

Wee'le gaze on lesser starres then you;

See how by their weake influence they,

The strongest of mens actions sway.

In an inferiour orbe below,

Wee'le see Calisto loosely throw

Her haire abroad: as she did weare,

The self-same beauty in a Beare,

As when she a cold Virgin stood,

And yet inflam'd Joves lustfull blood.

Then looke on Lede, whose faire beames

By their reflection guild those streames,

Where first unhappy she began

To play the wanton with a Swan.

If each of these loose beauties are

Transform'd to a more beauteous starre

By the adult'rous lust of Jove;

Why should not we, by purer love?

To Castara,
Upon the death of a Lady.

Castara weepe not, though her tombe appeare

Sometime thy griefe to answer with a teare:

The marble will but wanton with thy woe.

Death is the Sea, and we like Rivers flow

To lose our selves in the insatiate Maine,

Whence Rivers may, she[20] ne're returne againe.

Nor grieve this Christall streame so soone did fall

Into the Ocean; since she perfum'd all

The banks she past, so that each neighbour field

Did sweete flowers cherish by her watring, yeeld.

Which now adorne her Hearse. The violet there

On her pale cheeke doth the sad livery weare,

Which heavens compassion gave her; And since she

Cause cloath'd in purple can no mourner be,

As incense to the tombe she gives her breath,

And fading, on her Lady waits in death.

Such office the Ægyptian handmaids did

Great Cleopatra, when she dying chid

The Asps slow venome, trembling she should be

By Fate rob'd even of that blacke victory.

The flowers instruct our sorrowes. Come then all

Ye beauties, to true beauties funerall,

And with her, to increase deaths pompe, decay.

Since the supporting fabricke of your clay

Is faine, how can ye stand? How can the night

Shew stars, when Fate puts out the dayes great light?

But 'mong the faire, if there live any yet,

She's but the fairer Digbies counterfeit.

Come you who speake your titles. Reade in this

Pale booke, how vaine a boast your greatnesse is.

What's honour but a hatchment? what is here

Of Percy left, and Stanly, names most deare

To vertue? but a crescent turn'd to th' wane,

An Eagle groaning o're an infant slaine?

Or what availes her, that she once was led,

A glorious bride to valiant Digbies bed,

Since death hath them divorc'd? If then alive

There are, who these sad obsequies survive

And vaunt a proud descent, they onely be

Loud heralds to set forth her pedigree.

Come all who glory in your wealth, and view

The embleme of your frailty. How untrue

(Though flattering like friends) your treasures are,

Her Fate hath taught[21]: who, when what ever rare

The either Indies boast, lay richly spread

For her to weare, lay on her pillow dead.

Come likewise my Castara and behold,

What blessings ancient prophesie foretold,

Bestow'd on her in death. She past away

So sweetely from the world, as if her clay

Laid onely downe to slumber. Then forbeare

To let on her blest ashes fall a teare.

But if th'art too much woman, softly weepe.

Lest griefe disturbe the silence of her sleepe.

[20] we. 1634.

[21] Her Fate hath taught you: who, when what ever rare. 1634, 1635.

To Castara,
Being to take a journey.

What's death more than departure; the dead go

Like travelling exiles, compell'd to know

Those regions they heard mention of: Tis th'art

Of sorrowes, sayes, who dye doe but depart.

Then weepe thy funerall teares: which heaven t'adorne

The beauteous tresses of the weeping morne,

Will rob me of: and thus my tombe shall be

As naked, as it had no obsequie.

Know in these lines, sad musicke to thy eare,

My sad Castara, you the sermon here

Which I preach o're my hearse: And dead, I tell

My owne lives story, ring but my owne knell.

But when I shall returne, know 'tis thy breath

In sighes divided, rescues me from death.

To Castara,
Weeping.

Castara! O you are too prodigall

Oth' treasure of your teares; which thus let fall

Make no returne: well plac'd calme peace might bring

To the loud wars, each free a captiv'd King.

So the unskilfull Indian those bright jems,

Which might adde majestie to Diadems,

'Mong the waves scatters, as if he would store

The thanklesse Sea, to make our Empire poore.

When heaven darts thunder at the wombe of Time,

Cause with each moment it brings forth a crime,

Or else despairing to roote out abuse,

Would ruine vitious earth; be then profuse.

Light, chas'd rude chaos from the world before,

Thy teares, by hindring it's returne, worke more.

To Castara,
Upon a sigh.

I Heard a sigh, and something in my eare

Did whisper, what my soule before did feare.

That it was breath'd by thee. May th' easie Spring

Enricht with odours, wanton on the wing

Of th' Easterne wind, may ne're his beauty fade,

If he the treasure of this breath convey'd;

'Twas thine by 'th musicke which th' harmonious breath

Of Swans is like, propheticke in their death:

And th' odour, for as it the nard expires,

Perfuming Phœnix-like his funerall fires.

The winds of Paradice send such a gale,

To make the Lovers vessels calmely saile

To his lov'd Port. This shall, where it inspires,

Increase the chaste, extinguish unchaste fires.

To the Right Honourable the Lady F.

Madam.

You saw our loves, and prais'd the mutuall flame;

In which as incense to your sacred name

Burnes a religious zeale. May we be lost

To one another, and our fire be frost;

When we omit to pay the tribute due

To worth and vertue, and in them to you:

Who are the soule of women. Others be

But beauteous parts oth' female body; she

Who boasts how many nimble Cupids skip

Through her bright face, is but an eye or lip:

The other who in her soft brests can show

Warme Violets growing in a banke of snow,

And vaunts the lovely wonder, is but skin:

Nor is she but a hand, who holds within

The chrystall violl of her wealthy palme,

The precious sweating of the Easterne balme.

And all these if you them together take,

And joyne with art, will but one body make,

To which the soule each vitall motion gives;

You are infus'd into it, and it lives.

But should you up to your blest mansion flie,

How loath'd an object would the carkasse lie?

You are all mind. Castara when she lookes,

On you th' Epitome of all, that bookes

Or e're tradition taught; who gives such praise

Unto your sex, that now even customes sayes

He hath a female soule, who ere hath writ

Volumes which learning comprehend, and wit.

Castara cries to me; Search out and find

The Mines of wisedome in her learned mind,

And trace her steps to honour; I aspire

Enough to worth, while I her worth admire.

To Castara,
Against opinion.

Why should we build, Castara, in the aire

Of fraile opinion? Why admire as faire,

What the weake faith of man gives us for right?

The jugling world cheats but the weaker sight.

What is in greatnesse happy? As free mirth,

As ample pleasures of th' indulgent earth

We joy, who on the ground our mansion finde,

As they, who saile like witches in the wind

Of Court applause. What can their powerfull spell

Over inchanted man, more than compell

Him into various formes? Nor serves their charme

Themselves to good, but to worke others harme.

Tyrant Opinion but depose. And we

Will absolute ith' happiest Empire be.

To Castara,
Upon beautie.

Castara, see that dust, the sportive wind

So wantons with. 'Tis happ'ly all you'le finde

Left of some beauty: and how still it flies,

To trouble, as it did in life, our eyes.

O empty boast of flesh? Though our heires gild

The farre fetch Phrigian marble, which shall build

A burthen to our ashes, yet will death

Betray them to the sport of every breath.

Dost thou, poor relique of our frailty, still

Swell up with glory? Or is it thy skill,

To mocke weake man, whom every wind of praise

Into the aire, doth 'bove his center raise.

If so, mocke on, And tell him that his lust

To beauty's, madnesse. For it courts but dust.

To Castara,
Melancholly.

Were but that sigh a penitentiall breath

That thou art mine: It would blow with it death,

T' inclose me in my marble: Where I'de be

Slave to the tyrant wormes, to set thee free.

What should we envy? Though with larger saile

Some dance upon the Ocean: yet more fraile

And faithlesse is that wave, than where we glide,

Blest in the safety of a private tide.

We still have land in ken. And 'cause our boat

Dares not affront the weather, wee'le ne're float

Farre from the shore. To daring them each cloud

Is big with thunder, every wind speakes loud.

And though wild rockes about the shore appeare

Yet vertue will finde roome to anchor there.

A Dialogue betweene
Araphill and Castara.

[22] Without a sense; and clip each others mind. 1634, 1635.

[23]To the Right Honourable Henry Lord M.

My Lord.

My thoughts are not so rugged, nor doth earth

So farre predominate in me, that mirth

Lookes not as lovely as when our delight

First fashion'd wings to adde a nimbler flight

To lazie time; who would, to have survai'd

Our varied pleasures, there have ever staid.

And they were harmelesse. For obedience

If frailty yeelds to the wild lawes of sence;

We shall but with a sugred venome meete;

No pleasure, if not innocent as sweet.

And that's your choyce: who adde the title good

To that of noble. For although the blood

Of Marshall, Stanley, and 'La Pole doth flow

With happy Brandon's in your veines; you owe

Your vertue not to them. Man builds alone

Oth' ground of honour: For desert's our owne.

Be that your ayme. I'le with Castara sit

Ith' shade, from heat of businesse. While my wit

Is neither big with an ambitious ayme,

To build tall Pyramids Ith' court of fame,

For after ages, or to win conceit

Oth' present, and grow in opinion great.

Rich in our selves, we envy not the East,

Her rockes of Diamonds, or her gold the West.

Arabia may be happy in the death

Of her reviving Phœnix; In the breath

Of coole Favonius, famous be the grove

Of Tempe; while we in each others love.

For that let us be fam'd. And when of all

That Nature made us two, the funerall

Leaves but a little dust; (which then as wed,

Even after death, shall sleepe still in one bed.)

The Bride and Bridegroome on the solemne day,

Shall with warm zeale approach our Urne, to pay

Their vowes, that heaven should blesse so farre their rites,

To shew them the faire paths to our delights.

[23] To the Right Honourable, my very good Lord Henry Lord M.

To a Tombe.

Tyrant o're tyrants, thou who onely dost

Clip the lascivious beauty without lust;

What horror at thy sight shootes through each sence;

How powerfull is thy silent eloquence,

Which never flatters? Thou instruct'st the proud,

That their swolne pompe is but an empty cloud,

Slave to each wind. The faire, those flowers they have

Fresh in their cheeke, are strewd upon a grave.

Thou tell'st the rich, their Idoll is but earth.

The vainely pleas'd, that Syren-like their mirth

Betrayes to mischiefe, and that onely he

Dares welcome death, whose aimes at vertue be.

Which yet more zeale doth to Castara move.

What checks me, when the tombe perswades to love?

To Castara,
Upon thought of Age and Death.

The breath of time shall blast the flowry Spring,

Which so perfumes thy cheeke, and with it bring

So darke a mist, as shall eclipse the light

Of thy faire eyes, in an eternall night.

Some melancholly chamber of the earth,

[24](For that like Time devoures whom it gave breath)

Thy beauties shall entombe, while all who ere

Lov'd nobly, offer up their sorrowes there.

But I whose griefe no formall limits bound,

Beholding the darke caverne of that ground,

Will there immure my selfe. And thus I shall

Thy mourner be, and my owne funerall.

Else by the weeping magicke of my verse,

Thou hadst reviv'd, to triumph o're thy hearse.

[24] (For she like Time devoures whom she gave breath)

[25]To the Right Honourable, the Lord P.

My Lord.

The reverend man by magicke of his prayer

Hath charm'd so, that I and your daughter are

Contracted into one. The holy lights

Smil'd with a cheerfull lustre on our rites,

And every thing presag'd full happinesse

To mutuall love; if you'le the omen blesse.

Nor grieve, my Lord, 'tis perfected. Before

Afflicted Seas sought refuge on the shore

From the angry North-wind. Ere th'astonisht Spring

Heard in the ayre the feather'd people sing,

Ere time had motion, or the Sunne obtain'd

His province o're the day, this was ordain'd.

Nor thinke in her I courted wealth or blood,

Or more uncertaine hopes: for had I stood

On th' highest ground of fortune, the world knowne

No greatnesse but what waited on my throne;

And she had onely had that face and mind,

I, with my selfe, had th'earth to her resign'd.

In vertue there's an Empire. And so sweete

The rule is when it doth with beauty meete,

As fellow Consull; that of heaven they

Nor earth partake; who would her disobey.

This captiv'd me. And ere I question'd why

I ought to love Castara, through my eye,

This soft obedience stole into my heart.

Then found I love might lend to th'quick-ey'd art

Of Reason yet a purer sight: For he

Though blind, taught her these Indies first to see,

In whose possession I at length am blest,

And with my selfe at quiet, here I rest,

As all things to my powre subdu'd, To me

Ther's nought beyond this. The whole world is she.

[25] To the Right Honorable, my very good Lord, the Lord P. 1634, 1635.

His Muse speakes to him.

Thy vowes are heard, and thy Castara's name

Is writ as faire ith' Register of Fame,

As th' ancient beauties which translated are

By Poets up to heaven; each there a starre.

And though Imperiall Tiber boast alone

Ovids Corinna, and to Arn is knowne

But Petrarchs Laura; while our famous Thames

Doth murmur Sydneyes Stella to her streames

Yet hast thou Severne left, and she can bring

As many quires of Swans, as they to sing

Thy glorious love: Which living shall by thee

The onely Sov'raigne of those waters be.

Dead in loves firmament, no starre shall shine

So nobly faire, so purely chaste as thine.

To Vaine hope.

Thou dreame of madmen, ever changing gale,

Swell with thy wanton breath the gaudy saile

Of glorious fooles. Thou guid'st them who thee court

To rocks, to quick-sands, or some faithlesse port.

Were I not mad, who when secure at ease,

I might ith' Cabbin passe the raging Seas,

Would like a franticke shipboy wildly haste,

To climbe the giddy top of th'unsafe mast?

Ambition never to her hopes did faine

A greatnesse, but I really obtaine

In my Castara. Wer't not fondnesse then

T' embrace[26] the shadowes of true blisse? And when

My Paradise all flowers and fruits both breed:

To rob a barren garden for a weed?

[26] clip. 1634, 1635.

To Castara,
How happy, though in an obscure fortune.

Were we by fate throwne downe below our feare;

Could we be poore? Or question Natures care

In our provision? She who doth afford

A feather'd garment fit for every bird,

And onely voyce enough t'expresse delight.

She who apparels Lillies in their white,

As if in that she'de teach mans duller sence,

Wh'are highest, should be so in innocence.

She who in damaske doth attire the Rose,

(And man t'himselfe a mockery to propose,

'Mong whom the humblest Judges grow to fit)

She who in purple cloathes the Violet:

If thus she cares for things even voyd of sence;

Shall we suspect in us her providence?

To Castara.

What can the freedome of our love enthrall?

Castara were we dispossest of all

The gifts of fortune; richer yet than she

Can make her slaves, wee'd in each other be.

Love in himselfe's a world. If we should have

A mansion but in some forsaken cave;

Wee'd smooth misfortune: and our selves thinke then

Retir'd like Princes from the noise of men,

To breath a while unflatter'd. Each wild beast,

That should the silence of our cell infest,

With clamor, seeking prey; Wee'd fancie were

Nought but an avaritious Courtier.

Wealth's but opinion. Who thinks others more

Of treasures have, than we, is[27] onely poore.

[27] he's. 1634.

On the death of the Right Honourable, George Earle of S.

Bright Saint, thy pardon, if my sadder verse,

Appeare in sighing o're thy glorious hearse,

To envie heaven. For fame it selfe now weares

Griefes Livery, and onely speaks in teares.

And pardon you Castara, if a while

Your memory I banish from my stile;

When I have payd his death the tribute due,

Of sorrow, I'le returne to Love and you.

Is there a name like Talbot, which a showre

Can force from every eye? And hath even powre

To alter natures course? How else should all

Runne wilde with mourning, and distracted fall:

Th' illiterate vulgar in a well tun'd breath,

Lament their losse, and learnedly chide death,

For its[28] bold rape, while the sad Poets song

Is yet unheard, as if griefe had no tongue.

Th'amaz'd marriner having lost his way

In the tempestuous desart of the Sea,

Lookes up but findes no starres. They all conspire

To darke themselves, t'enlighten this new fire.

The learn'd Astronomer with daring eye,

Searching to tracke the Spheres through which you flie,

(Most beauteous soule) doth in his journey faile,

And blushing, sayes, the subtlest art is fraile,

And but truths counterset. Your flight doth teach,

Faire Vertue hath an Orbe beyond his reach.

But I grow dull with sorrow. Unkinde Fate

To play the tyrant and subvert the state

Of setled goodnesse. Who shall henceforth stand

A pure example to enforme the Land

Of her loose riot[29]? Who shall counter-checke

The wanton pride of greatnesse; and direct

Straid honour in the true magnificke way?

Whose life shall shew what triumph 'tis t'obey

The hard commands of reason? And how sweet

The nuptials are, when wealth and learning meet?

Who will with silent piety confute

Atheisticke Sophistry, and by the fruite

Approve Religions tree? Who'le teach his blood

A Virgin law and dare be great and good?

Who will despise his stiles? And nobly weigh

In judgements ballance, that his honour'd clay

Hath no advantage by them? Who will live

So innocently pious, as to give

The world no scandall? Who'le himself deny,

And to warme passion a cold martyr dye?

My griefe distracts me. If my zeale hath said,

What checks the living: know I serve the dead.

The dead, who needs no monumentall vaults,

With his pale ashes to intombe his faults.

Whose sins beget no libels, whom the poore

For benefit; for worth, the rich adore.

Who liv'd a solitary Phœnix free

From the commerce with mischiefe, joy'd to be

Still gazing heaven-ward, where his thoughts did move,

Fed with the sacred fire of zealous love.

Alone he flourisht, 'till the fatall houre

Did summon him, when gathering from each flowre

Their vertuous odours, from his perfum'd nest,

He tooke his flight to everlasting rest.

There shine great Lord, and with propitious eyes,

Looke downe, and smile upon this sacrifice.

[28] his. 1634, 1635.

[29] wit. 1634.

To my worthy Cousin M^r. E. C.
In praise of the City life, in the long Vacation.

I Like the greene plush which your meadows weare;

I praise your pregnant fields, which duly beare

Their wealthy burden to th'industrious Bore.

Nor doe I disallow that who are poore

In minde and fortune, thither should retire:

But hate that he who's warme with [30]holy fire

Of any knowledge, and 'mong-us may feast

On Nectar'd wit, should turne himselfe t' a beast,

And graze ith' Country. Why did nature wrong

So much her paines, as to give you a tongue

And fluent language; If converse you hold

With Oxen in the stall, and sheep ith' fold?

But now it's long Vacation you will say

The towne is empty, and who ever may

To th' pleasure of his Country home repaire,

Flyes from th' infection of our London aire.

In this your errour. Now's the time alone

To live here; when the City Dame is gone,

T' her house at Brandford; for beyond that she

Imagines there's no land, but Barbary,

Where lies her husbands Factor. When from hence

Rid is the Country Justice whose non-sence

Corrupted had the language of the Inne,

Where he and his horse litter'd: We beginne

To live in silence, when the noyse oth' Bench

Not deafens Westminster, nor corrupt French

Walkes Fleet-street in her gowne. Ruffes of the Barre,

By the Vacations powre translated are,

To Cut-worke bands. And who were busie here,

Are gone to sow sedition in the shire.

The aire by this is purg'd, and the Termes strife,

Thus fled the City: we the civill life

Lead happily. When in the gentle way,

Of noble mirth, I have the long liv'd day,

Contracted to a moment: I retire.

To my Castara, and meet such a fire

Of mutuall love: that if the City were

Infected, that would purifie the ayre.

[30] th' holy fire. 1634.

Loves Aniversarie
To the Sunne.

Thou art return'd (great Light) to that blest houre

In which I first by marriage, sacred power,

Joyn'd with Castara hearts: And as the same

Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame:

Which had increast, but that by loves decree,

'Twas such at first, it ne're could greater be.

But tell me (glorious Lampe) in thy survey,

Of things below thee, what did not decay

By age to weaknesse? I since that have seene

The Rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow greene

And wither, and the beauty of the field

With Winter wrinkled. Even thy selfe dost yeeld

Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher.

But vertuous love is one sweet endlesse fire.

Against them who lay unchastity to the sex of Women.

They meet but with unwholesome Springs,

And Summers which infectious are:

They heare but when the Meremaid sings,

And onely see the falling starre:

Who ever dare,

Affirme no woman chaste and faire.

Goe cure your feavers: and you'le say

The Dog-dayes scorch not all the yeare:

In Copper Mines no longer stay,

But travell to the West, and there

The right ones see:

And grant all gold's not Alchimie.

What mad man 'cause the glow-wormes flame

Is cold, sweares there's no warmth in fire?

Cause some make forfeit of their name,

And slave themselves to mans desire;

Shall the sex free

From guilt, damn'd to the bondage be?

Nor grieve Castara, though 'twere fraile,

Thy Vertue then would brighter shine,

When thy example should prevaile,

And every womans faith be thine.

And were there none:

'Tis Majesty to rule alone.

To the Right Honourable and excellently learned, William Earle of St.

My Lord,

The Laurell doth your reverend temples wreath

As aptly now, as when your youth did breath

Those tragicke raptures which your name shall save

From the blacke edict of a tyrant grave.

Nor shall your Day ere set, till the Sunne shall

From the blind heavens like a cynder fall;

And all the elements intend their strife,

To ruine what they fram'd: Then your fames life,

When desp'rate Time lies gasping, shall expire

Attended by the world ith' generall fire.

Fame lengthens thus her selfe. And I to tread

Your steps to glory, search among the dead,

Where Vertue lies obscur'd; that as I give

Life to her tombe, I spight of time may live.

Now I resolve in triumph of my verse,

To bring great Talbot from that forren hearse,

Which yet doth to her fright his dust enclose:

Then to sing Herbert who so glorious rose,

With the fourth Edward, that his faith doth shine

Yet in the faith of noblest Pembrookes line.

Sometimes my swelling spirits I prepare

To speake the mighty Percy, neerest heire,

In merits as in blood, to Charles the great:

Then Darbies worth and greatnesse to repeat:

Or Morleyes honour, or Mounteagles fame,

Whose valour lies eterniz'd in his name.

But while I thinke to sing those of my bloud,

And my Castara's; Loves unruly flood

Breakes in, and beares away what ever stands,

Built by my busie fancy on the sands.

To Castara,
Upon an embrace.

'Bout th' Husband Oke, the Vine

Thus wreathes to kisse his leavy face:

Their streames thus Rivers joyne,

And lose themselves in the embrace.

But Trees want sence when they infold,

And Waters when they meet, are cold.

Thus Turtles bill, and grone

Their loves into each others eare:

Two flames thus burne in one,

When their curl'd heads to heaven they reare.

But Birds want soule though not desire:

And flames materiall soone expire.

If not prophane; we'll say

When Angels close, their joyes are such.

For we not love obey

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

By vertue of a cleane contrary gale,

Into some other Port? Where thou wilt find,

It was thy better Genius chang'd the wind,

To steere thee to some Iland in the West,

For wealth and pleasure, that transcends thy East.

Though Astrodora, like a sullen starre

Eclipse her selfe: Ith' sky of beauty are

Ten thousand other fires, some bright as she.

And who with milder beames, may shine on thee.

Nor yet doth this Eclipse beare a portent,

That should affright the world: The firmament

Enjoyes the light it did, a Sunne as cleare,

And the young Spring doth like a Bride appeare,

As fairely wed to the Thessalian grove

As e're it was; though she and you not love.

And we two, who like two bright stars have shin'd

Ith' heaven of friendship, are as firmely joyn'd

As bloud and love first fram'd us. And to be

Lov'd, and thought worthy to be lov'd by thee,

Is to be glorious. Since fame cannot lend

An honour, equals that of Talbots friend.

Nor envie me that my Castara's flame

Yeelds me a constant warmth: Though first I came

To marriage happy Ilands: Seas to thee

Will yeeld as smooth a way, and winds as free.

Which shall conduct thee (if hope may divine;)

To this delicious port: and make love thine.

To Castara.
The reward of Innocent Love.

We saw and woo'd each others eyes,

My soule contracted then with thine,

And both burnt in one sacrifice.

By which our Marriage grew divine.

Let wilder youth, whose soule is sense,

Prophane the Temple of delight.

And purchase endlesse penitence,

With the stolen pleasure of one night.

Time's ever ours, while we dispise

The sensuall idoll of our clay.

For though the Sunne doe set and rise,

We joy one everlasting day.

Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,

While each of us shine innocent.

The troubled streame is still impure,

With vertue flies away content.

And though opinion often erre,

Wee'le court the modest smile of fame.

For sinnes blacke danger circles her,

Who hath infection in her name.

Thus when to one darke silent roome,

Death shall our loving coffins thrust;

Fame will build columnes on our tombe,

And adde a perfume to our dust.

To my noble Friend, Sir I. P. Knight.

Sir,

Though my deare Talbots Fate exact, a sad

And heavy brow; my verse shall not be clad

For him this houre in mourning: I will write

To you the glory of a pompous night,

Which none (except sobriety) who wit

Or cloathes could boast, but freely did admit.

I (who still sinne for company) was there

And tasted of the glorious supper, where

Meate was the least of wonder. Though the nest

Oth' Phœnix rifled seem'd t'amaze the feast,

And th' Ocean left so poore that it alone

Could since vant wretched herring and poore John.

Lucullus surfets, were but types of this,

And whatsoever riot mention'd is

In story, did but the dull Zanye play,

To this proud night; which rather wee'le terme day:

For th'artificiall lights so thicke were set,

That bright Sun seem'd this to counterfeit

But seven (whom whether we should Sages call

Or deadly sinnes, Ile not dispute) were all

Invited to this pompe. And yet I dare

Pawne my lov'd Muse, th' Hungarian did prepare

Not halfe that quantity of victuall, when

He layd his happy siege to Nortlinghen.

The mist of the perfumes was breath'd so thicke

That Linx himselfe thought his sight fam'd so quicke,

Had there scarce spyed one sober: For the wealth

Of the Canaries was exhaust, the health

Of his good Majestye to celebrate,

Who'le judge them loyall subjects without that:

Yet they, who some fond privilege to mainteine,

Would have rebeld; their best freehold, their braine

Surrender'd there; and five fifteenes did pay

To drink his happy life and reigne. O day

It was thy piety to flye; th' hadst beene

Found accessary else to this fond sinne.

But I forget to speake each stratagem

By which the dishes enter'd, and in them

Each luscious miracle, As if more bookes

Had written beene oth' mystery of Cookes

Then the Philos'phers stone, here we did see

All wonders in the kitchin Alchimy:

But Ile not have you there, before you part

You shall have something of another art.

A banquet raining downe so fast, the good

Old Patriarch would have thought a generall flood:

Heaven open'd and from thence a mighty showre

Of Amber comfits it sweete selfe did powre

Upon our heads, and Suckets from our eye

Like thickend clouds did steale away the sky,

That it was question'd whether heaven were

Black-fryers, and each starre a confectioner;

But I too long detaine you at a feast

You hap'ly surfet of; now every guest

Is reeld downe to his coach; I licence crave

Sir, but to kisse your hands, and take my leave.

To The Right Honourable Archibald Earle of Ar.

If your example be obey'd

The serious few will live ith' silent shade:

And not indanger by the wind

Or Sunshine, the complexion of their mind:

Whose beauty weares so cleare a skin

That it decayes with the least taint of sin.

Vice growes by custome, nor dare we

Reject it as a slave, where it breathes free,

And is no priviledge denyed;

Nor if advanc'd to higher place envyed.

Wherefore your Lordship in your selfe

(Not lancht farre in the maine, nor nigh the shelfe

Of humbler fortune) lives at ease,

Safe from the rocks oth' shore, and stormes oth' Seas.

Your soule's a well built City, where

There's such munition, that no war breeds feare:

No rebels wilde destractions move;

For you the heads have crusht; Rage, Envy, Love.

And therefore you defiance bid

To open enmity, or mischiefe hid

In fawning hate and supple pride,

Who are on every corner fortifide.

Your youth not rudely led by rage

Of blood, is now the story of your age

Which without boast you may averre

'Fore blackest danger, glory did prefer:

Glory not purchast by the breath

Of Sycophants, but by encountring death.

Yet wildnesse nor the feare of lawes

Did make your fight, but justice of the cause.

For but mad prodigals they are

Of fortitude, who for it selfe love warre.

When well made peace hath clos'd the eyes

Of discord, loath did not your youth surprize.

Your life as well as powre, did awe

The bad, and to the good was the best law:

When most men vertue did pursue

In hope by it to grow in fame like you.

Nor when you did to court repaire,

Did you your manners alter with the ayre.

You did your modesty retaine

Your faithfull dealing, the same tongue and braine.

Nor did all the soft flattery there

Inchant you so, but still you truth could heare.

And though your roofes were richly guilt,

The basis was on no wards ruine built.

Nor were your vassals made a prey,

And forc't to curse the Coronation day.

And though no bravery was knowne

To out-shine yours, you onely spent your owne.

For 'twas the indulgence of fate,

To give y' a moderate minde, and bounteous state?

But I, my Lord, who have no friend

Of fortune, must begin where you doe end.

'Tis dang'rous to approach the fire

Of action; nor is't safe, farre to retire.

Yet better lost ith' multitude

Of private men, then on the state t'intrude,

And hazard for a doubtfull smile,

My stocke of same, and inward peace to spoile.

Ile therefore nigh some murm'ring brooke

That wantons through my meddowes, with a booke

With my Castara, or some friend,

My youth not guilty of ambition spend.

To my own shade (if fate permit)

Ile whisper some soft musique of my wit.

And flatter to my selfe, Ile see

By that, strange motion steale into the tree.

But still my first and chiefest care

Shall be t'appease offended heaven with prayer:

And in such mold my thoughts to cast,

That each day shall be spent as 'twere my last

How ere it's sweete lust to obey,

Vertue though rugged, is the safest way.

An Elegy upon The Honourable Henry Cambell, sonne to the Earle of Arg.

Its false Arithmaticke to say thy breath

Expir'd to soone, or irreligious death

Prophan'd thy holy youth. For if thy yeares

Be number'd by thy vertues or our teares,

Thou didst the old Methusalem out-live.

Though Time, but twenty yeares account can give

Of thy abode on earth, yet every houre

Of thy brave youth by vertues wondrous powre

Was lengthen'd to a yeare. Each well-spent day

Keepes young the body, but the soule makes gray.

Such miracles workes goodnesse: and behind

Th'ast left to us such stories of thy minde

Fit for example; that when them we read,

We envy earth the treasure of the dead.

Why doe the sinfull riot and survive

The feavers of their surfets? Why alive

Is yet disorder'd greatnesse, and all they

Who the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey?

Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the night

With cheats and imprecations? Why is light

Looked on by those whose breath may poyson it:

Who sold the vigor of their strength and wit

To buy diseases: and thou, who faire truth

And vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth?

But Ile not question fate. Heaven doth conveigh

Those first from the darke prison of their clay

Who are most fit for heaven. Thou in warre

Hadst tane degrees, those dangers felt, which are

The props on which peace safely doth subsist

And through the Cannons blew and horrid mist

Hadst brought her light: And now wert so compleat

That naught but death did want to make thee great.

Thy death was timely then bright soule to thee,

And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not. 'Twas we

Who dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increase

Of reall glory both in warre and peace,

We all did share: and thou away we feare

Didst with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare.

Each then be his owne mourner, Wee'le to thee

Write hymnes, upon the world an Elegie.

To Castara.

Why should we feare to melt away in death;

May we but dye together. When beneath

In a coole vault we sleepe, the world will prove

Religious, and call it the shrine of Love.

There, when oth' wedding eve some beautious maid,

Suspitious of the faith of man, hath paid

The tribute of her vowes; oth' sudden shee

Two violets sprouting from the tombe will see:

And cry out, ye sweet emblems of their zeale

Who live below, sprang ye up to reveale

The story of our future joyes, how we

The faithfull patterns of their love shall be?

If not; hang downe your heads opprest with dew,

And I will weepe and wither hence with you.

To Castara,
Of what we were before our creation.

When Pelion wondring saw, that raine which fell

But now from angry Heaven, to Heaven ward swell:

When th' Indian Ocean did the wanton play,

Mingling its billowes with the Balticke sea:

And the whole earth was water: O where then

Were we Castara? In the fate of men

Lost underneath the waves? Or to beguile

Heaven's justice, lurkt we in Noahs floating Isle?

We had no being then. This fleshly frame

Wed to a soule, long after, hither came

A stranger to it selfe. Those moneths that were

But the last age, no news of us did heare.

What pompe is then in us? Who th' other day

Were nothing; and in triumph now, but clay.

To the Moment last past.

O Whither dost thou flye? Cannot my vow

Intreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but now,

And thou art gone: like ships which plough the Sea,

And leave no print for man to tracke their way.

O unseene wealth! who thee did husband, can

Out-vie the jewels of the Ocean,

The mines of th' earth! One sigh well spent in thee

Had beene a purchase for eternity!

We will not loose thee then. Castara, where

Shall we finde out his hidden sepulcher;

And wee'le revive him. Not the cruell stealth

Of fate shall rob us, of so great a wealth.

Undone in thrift! while we besought his stay,

Ten of his fellow moments fled away.

To Castara.
Of the knowledge of Love.

Where sleepes the North-wind when the South inspires

Life in the spring, and gathers into quires

The scatter'd Nightingales; whose subtle eares

Heard first th' harmonious language of the Spheares;

Whence hath the stone Magneticke force t'allure

Th' enamour'd iron; From a seed impure

Or naturall did first the Mandrake grow;

What powre ith' Ocean makes it ebbe and flow;

What strange materials is the azure skye

Compacted of; of what its[31] brightest eye

The ever flaming Sunne; what people are

In th'unknowne world; what worlds in every star;

Let curious fancies at this secret rove;

Castara what we know, wee'le practise, Love.

[31] her. 1635.

[32]To the Right Honourable the Countesse of C.

Madam,

Should the cold Muscovit, whose furre and stove

Can scarse prepare him heate enough for love,

But view the wonder of your presence, he

Would scorne his winters sharpest injury:

And trace the naked groves, till he found bayse

To write the beautious triumphs of your prayse.

As a dull Poet even he would say,

Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them day

Till that bright minute; that he now admires

No more why the coy Spring so soone retires

From their unhappy clyme: It doth pursue

The Sun, and he derives his light from you.

Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick Sea

Is set at freedome, while the yce away

Doth melt at your approach; how by so faire

Harmonious beauty, their rude manners are

Reduc't to order; how to them you bring

The wealthiest mines below, above the Spring.

Thus would his wonder speake. For he would want

Religion to beleeve, there were a Saint

Within, and all he saw was but the shrine.

But I here pay my vowes to the devine

Pure essence there inclos'd, which if it were

Not hid in a faire cloud but might appeare

In its full lustre, would make Nature live

In a state equall to her primitive.

But sweetly thats obscur'd. Yet though our eye

Cannot the splendor of your soule descry

In true perfection, by a glimmering light,

Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how bright

The Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkind

Eclipse, or else our selves for being blinde.

How hastily doth Nature build up man

To leave him so imperfect? For he can

See nought beyond his sence; she doth controule

So farre his sight, he nere discern'd a soule.

For had yours beene the object of his eye;

It had turn'd wonder to Idolatry.

[32] To the Right Honourable, my very good Lady, the Countesse of C. 1635.

The harmony of Love.

Amphion, O thou holy shade!

Bring Orpheus up with thee:

That wonder may you both invade,

Hearing Loves harmony.

You who are soule, not rudely made

Up, with Materiall eares,

And fit to reach the musique of these spheares.

Harke! when Castara's orbs doe move

By my first moving eyes,

How great the Symphony of Love,

But 'tis the destinies

Will not so farre my prayer approve,

To bring you hither, here

Lest you meete heaven, for Elizium there.

Tis no dull Sublunary flame

Burnes in her heart and mine.

But something more, then hath a name.

So subtle and divine,

We know not why, nor how it came.

Which shall shine bright, till she

And the whole world of love, expire with me.

To my honoured friend Sir Ed. P. Knight.

You'd leave the silence in which safe we are,

To listen to the noyse of warre;

And walke those rugged paths, the factious tread,

Who by the number of the dead

Reckon their glories, and thinke greatnesse stood

Unsafe, till it was built on blood.

Secure ith' wall our Seas and ships provide

(Abhorring wars so barb'rous pride

And honour bought with slaughter) in content

Lets breath though humble, innocent.

Folly and madnesse! Since 'tis ods we nere

See the fresh youth of the next yeare.

Perhaps not the chast morne, her selfe disclose

Againe, t'out-blush th' æmulous rose,

Why doth ambition so the mind distresse

To make us scorne what we possesse?

And looke so farre before us? Since all we

Can hope, is varied misery?

Goe find some whispering shade neare Arne or Poe,

And gently 'mong their violets throw

Your wearyed limbs, and see if all those faire

Enchantments can charme griefe or care?

Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when you

The ruin'd Capitoll shall view

And statues, a disorder'd heape; you can

Not cure yet the disease of man,

And banish your owne thoughts. Goe travaile where

Another Sun and Starres appeare,

And land not toucht by any covetous fleet,

And yet even there your selfe you'le meet.

Stay here then, and while curious exiles find

New toyes for a fantastique mind;

Enjoy at home what's reall: here the Spring

By her aeriall quires doth sing

As sweetly to you, as if you were laid

Under the learn'd Thessalian shade,

Direct your eye-sight inward, and you'le find

A thousand regions in your mind

Yet undiscover'd. Travell them, and be

Expert in home Cosmographie.

This you may doe safe both from rocke and shelfe:

Man's a whole world within him selfe.

To Castara.

Give me a heart where no impure

Disorder'd passions rage,

Which jealousie doth not obscure,

Not vanity t' expence ingage,

Nor wooed to madnesse by quient oathes,

Or the fine Rhetoricke of cloathes,

Which not the softnesse of the age

To vice or folly doth decline;

Give me that heart (Castara) for 'tis thine.

Take thou a heart where no new looke

Provokes new appetite:

With no fresh charme of beauty tooke,

Or wanton stratagem of wit;

Not Idly wandring here and there,

Led by an am'rous eye or eare.

Ayming each beautious marke to hit;

Which vertue doth to one confine:

Take thou that heart, Castara, for 'tis mine.

And now my heart is lodg'd with thee,

Observe but how it still

Doth listen how thine doth with me;

And guard it well, for else it will

Runne hither backe; not to be where

I am, but 'cause thy heart is here.

But without discipline, or skill.

Our hearts shall freely 'tweene us move;

Should thou or I want hearts, wee'd breath by love.

To Castara.
Of true delight.

Why doth the eare so tempt the voyce,

That cunningly divides the ayre?

Why doth the pallate buy the choyce

Delights oth' sea, to enrich her fare?

As soone as I, my eare obey

The Eccho's lost even with the breath.

And when the sewer takes away

I'me left with no more taste, then death.

Be curious in pursuite of eyes

To procreate new loves with thine;

Satiety makes sence despise

What superstition thought divine.

Quicke fancy how it mockes delight?

As we conceive, things are not such,

The glow-worme is as warme as bright,

Till the deceitfull flame we touch.

When I have sold my heart to lust,

And bought repentance with a kisse

I find the malice of my dust,

That told me hell contain'd a blisse.

The Rose yeelds her sweete blandishment

Lost in the fold of lovers wreathes,

The violet enchants the sent,

When earely in the Spring she breaths.

But winter comes and makes each flowre

Shrinke from the pillow where it growes,

Or an intruding cold hath powre

To scorne the perfume of the Rose.

Our sences like false glasses show

Smooth beauty where browes wrinkled are,

And makes the cosen'd fancy glow.

Chaste vertue's onely true[33] and faire.

[33] chaste. 1635.

To my noblest Friend, I. C. Esquire.

Sir,

I hate the Countries durt and manners, yet

I love the silence; I embrace the wit

And courtship, flowing here in a full tide.

But loathe the expence, the vanity, and pride.

No place each way is happy. Here I hold

Commerce with some, who to my eare unfold

(After a due oath ministred) the height

And greatnesse of each star shines in the state:

The brightnesse, the eclypse, the influence.

With others I commune, who tell me whence

The torrent doth of forraigne discord flow:

Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,

Soone as they happen; and by rote can tell

Those Germane townes, even puzzle me to spell.

The crosse or prosperous fate of Princes, they

Ascribe to rashnesse, cunning, or delay:

And on each action comment, with more skill

Then upon Livy, did old Machavill.

O busie folly! Why doe I my braine

Perplex with the dull pollicies of Spaine,

Or quicke designes of France? Why not repaire

To the pure innocence oth' Country ayre:

And neighbor thee, deare friend? Who so dost give

Thy thoughts to worth and vertue, that to live

Blest, is to trace thy wayes. There might not we

Arme against passion with Philosophie;

And by the aide of leisure, so controule,

What-ere is earth in us, to grow all soule?

Knowledge doth ignorance ingender when

We study misteries of other men

And forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade

(Thy head upon some flowry pillow laide,

Kind Natures huswifery) contemplate all

His stratagems who labours to inthrall

The world to his great Master; and youle finde

Ambition mocks it selfe, and grasps the wind.

Not conquest makes us great. Blood is to deare

A price for glory: Honour doth appeare

To statesmen like a vision in the night,

And jugler-like workes oth' deluded sight.

Th' unbusied onely wise: For no respect

Indangers them to error; They affect

Truth in her naked beauty, and behold

Man with an equall eye, not bright in gold

Or tall in title; so much him they weigh

As Vertue raiseth him above his clay.

Thus let us value things: And since we find

Time bends us toward death, lets in our mind

Create new youth; and arme against the rude

Assaults of age; that no dull solitude

Oth' country dead our thoughts, nor busie care

Oth' towne make us not thinke, where now we are

And whether we are bound. Time nere forgot

His journey, though his steps we numbred not.

To Castara.
What Lovers will say when she and he are dead.

I wonder when w'are dead, what men will say;

Will not poore Orphan Lovers weepe.

The parents of their Loves decay;

And envy death the treasure of our sleepe?

Will not each trembling Virgin bring her feares

To th' holy silence of my Urne?

And chide the Marble with her teares,

Cause she so soone faith's obsequie must mourne.

For had Fate spar'd but Araphill (she'le say)

He had the great example stood,

And forc't unconstant man obey

The law of Loves Religion, not of blood.

And youth by female perjury betraid,

Will to Castara's shrine deplore

His injuries, and death obrayd,

That woman lives more guilty, then before.

For while thy breathing purified the ayre

Thy Sex (hee'le say) did onely move

By the chaste influence of a faire,

Whose vertue shin'd in the bright orbe of love.

Now woman, like a Meteor vapor'd forth

From dunghills, doth amaze our eyes;

Not shining with a reall worth,

But subtile her blacke errors to disguise.

Thus will they talke, Castara, while our dust

In one darke vault shall mingled be.

The world will fall a prey to lust,

When Love is dead, which hath one fate with me.

To his Muse.

Here Virgin fix thy pillars, and command

They sacred may to after ages stand

In witnesse of loves triumph. Yet will we

Castara, find new worlds in Poetry,

And conquer them. Not dully following those

Tame lovers, who dare cloth their thoughts in prose.

But we will henceforth more Religious prove,

Concealing the high mysteries of love

From the prophane. Harmonious like the spheares,

Our soules shall move, not reacht by humane eares.

That Musicke to the Angels, this to fame,

I here commit. That when their holy flame,

True lovers to pure beauties would rehearse,

They may invoke the Genius of my verse.

FINIS.

A Friend

Is a man. For the free and open discovery of thoughts to woman can not passe without an over licentious familiarity, or a justly occasion'd suspition; and friendship can neither stand with vice or infamie. He is vertuous, for love begot in sin is a mishapen monster, and seldome out-lives his birth. He is noble, and inherits the vertues of all his progenitors; though happily unskilfull to blazon his paternall coate; So little should nobility serve for story, but when it encourageth to action. He is so valiant, feare could never be listned to, when she whisper'd danger; and yet fights not, unlesse religion confirmes the quarrell lawfull. He submits his actions to the government of vertue, not to the wilde decrees of popular opinion; and when his conscience is fully satisfied, he cares not how mistake and ignorance interpret him. He hath so much fortitude he can forgive an injurie; and when he hath overthrown his opposer, not insult upon his weakenesse. He is an absolute governor; no destroyer of his passions, which he imployes to the noble increase of vertue. He is wise, for who hopes to reape a harvest from the sands, may expect the perfect offices of friendship from a foole. He hath by a liberall education beene softned to civility; for that rugged honesty some rude men posesse, is an indigested Chaos; which may containe the seedes of goodnesse, but it wants forme and order.

He is no flatterer; but when he findes his friend any way imperfect, he freely but gently informes him; nor yet shall some few errors cancell the bond of friendship; because he remembers no endeavours can raise man above his frailety. He is as slow to enter into that title, as he is to forsake it; a monstrous vice must disobliege, because an extraordinary vertue did first unite; and when he parts, he doth it without a duell. He is neither effeminate, nor a common courtier; the first is so passionate a doater upon himselfe, hee cannot spare love enough to bee justly named friendship: the latter hath his love so diffusive among the beauties, that man is not considerable. He is not accustomed to any sordid way of gaine, for who is any way mechanicke, will sell his friend upon more profitable termes. He is bountifull, and thinkes no treasure of fortune equall to the preservation of him he loves; yet not so lavish, as to buy friendship and perhaps afterward finde himselfe overseene in the purchase. He is not exceptious, for jealousie proceedes from weakenesse, and his vertues quit him from suspitions. He freely gives advice, but so little peremptory is his opinion that he ingenuously submits it to an abler judgement. He is open in expression of his thoughts and easeth his melancholy by inlarging it; and no Sanctuary preserves so safely, as he his friend afflicted. He makes use of no engines of his friendship to extort a secret; but if committed to his charge, his heart receives it, and that and it come both to light together. In life he is the most amiable object to the soule, in death the most deplorable.

The Funerals of the Honourable, my best friend and Kinsman, George Talbot, Esquire.

Elegie, 1.

Twere malice to the fame; to weepe alone

And not enforce an universall groane

From ruinous man, and make the World complaine:

Yet I'le forbid my griefe to be prophane

In mention of thy prayse; I'le speake but truth

Yet write more honour than ere shin'd in youth.

I can relate thy businesse here on earth,

Thy mystery of life, thy noblest birth

Out-shin'd by nobler vertue: but how farre

Th' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest star,

I cannot speake, nor whether thou art in

Commission with a Throne, or Cherubin.

Passe on triumphant in thy glorious way,

Till thou hast reacht the place assign'd: we may

Without disturbing the harmonious Spheares,

Bathe here below thy memory in our teares.

Ten dayes are past, since a dull wonder seis'd

My active soule: Loud stormes of sighes are rais'd

By empty griefes; they who can utter it,

Doe no vent forth their sorrow, but their wit.

I stood like Niobe without a grone,

Congeal'd into that monumentall stone

That doth lye over thee: I had no roome

For witty griefe, fit onely for thy tombe.

And friendships monument, thus had I stood;

But that the flame I beare thee, warm'd my blood

With a new life. Ile like a funerall fire

But burne a while to thee, and then expire.

Elegie, 2.

Talbot is dead. Like lightning which no part

Oth' body touches, but first strikes the heart,

This word hath murder'd me. Ther's not in all

The stocke of sorrow, any charme can call

Death sooner up. For musiqu's in the breath

Of thunder, and a sweetnesse even ith' death

That brings with it, if you with this compare

All the loude noyses, which torment the ayre.

They cure (Physitians say) the element

Sicke with dull vapors, and to banishment

Confine infections; but this fatall shreeke,

Without the least redresse, is utter'd like

The last dayes summons, when Earths trophies lye

A scatter'd heape, and time it selfe must dye.

What now hath life to boast of? Can I have

A thought lesse darke than th' horror of the grave

Now thou dost dwell below? Wer't not a fault

Past pardon, to raise fancie 'bove thy vault?

Hayle Sacred house in which his reliques sleepe?

Blest marble give me leave t' approach and weepe,

These vowes to thee! for since great Talbot's gone

Downe to thy silence, I commerce with none

But thy pale people: and in that confute

Mistaking man, that dead men are not mute.

Delicious beauty, lend thy flatter'd eare

Accustom'd to warme whispers, and thou'lt heare

How their cold language tels thee, that thy skin

Is but a beautious shrine, in which black sin

Is Idoliz'd; thy eyes but Spheares where lust

Hath its loose motion; and thy end is dust.

Great Atlas of the state, descend with me.

But hither, and this vault shall furnish thee

With more aviso's, then thy costly spyes,

And show how false are all those mysteries

Thy Sect receives, and though thy pallace swell

With envied pride, 'tis here that thou must dwell.

It will instruct you, Courtier, that your Art

Of outward smoothnesse and a rugged heart

But cheates your self, and all those subtill wayes

You tread to greatnesse, is a fatall maze

Where you your selfe shall loose, for though you breath

Upward to pride, your center is beneath.

And 'twill thy Rhetorick false flesh confound;

Which flatters thy fraile thoughts, no time can wound

This unarm'd frame. Here is true eloquence

Will teach my soule to triumph over sence,

Which hath its period in a grave, and there

Showes what are all our pompous surfets here.

Great Orator! deare Talbot! Still, to thee

May I an auditor attentive be:

And piously maintaine the same commerce

We held in life! and if in my rude verse

I to the world may thy sad precepts read:

I will on earth interpret for the dead.

Elegie, 3.

Let me contemplate thee (faire soule) and though

I cannot tracke the way, which thou didst goe

In thy cœlestiall journey; and my heart

Expanssion wants, to thinke what now thou art

How bright and wide thy glories; yet I may

Remember thee, as thou wert in thy clay.

Best object to my heart! what vertues be

Inherent even to the least thought of thee!

Death which to th' vig'rous heate of youth brings feare

In its leane looke; doth like a Prince appeare,

Now glorious to my eye, since it possest

The wealthy empyre of that happie chest

Which harbours thy rich dust; for how can he

Be thought a bank'rout that embraces thee?

Sad midnight whispers with a greedy eare

I catch from lonely graves, in hope to heare

Newes from the dead, nor can pale visions fright

His eye, who since thy death feeles no delight

In mans acquaintance. Mem'ry of thy fate

Doth in me a sublimer soule create.

And now my sorrow followes thee, I tread

The milkie way, and see the snowie head

Of Atlas farre below, while all the high

Swolne buildings seeme but atomes to my eye.

I'me heighten'd by my ruine; and while I

Weepe ore the vault where the sad ashes lye,

My soule with thine doth hold commerce above;

Where we discerne the stratagems, which Love,

Hate, and ambition, use, to cozen man;

So fraile that every blast of honour can

Swell him above himselfe, each, adverse gust

Him and his glories shiver into dust.

How small seemes greatnesse here! How not a span

His empire, who commands the Ocean.

Both that, which boasts so much it's mighty ore

And th' other, which with pearle, hath pav'd its' shore

Nor can it greater seeme, when this great All

For which men quarrell so, is but a ball

Cast downe into the ayre to sport the starres.

And all our generall ruines, mortall warres,

Depopulated states, caus'd by their sway;

And mans so reverend wisedome but their play.

From thee, deare Talbot, living I did learne

The Arts of life, and by thy light discerne

The truth, which men dispute. But by thee dead

I'me taught, upon the worlds gay pride to tread:

And that way sooner master it, than he

To whom both th' Indies tributary be.

Elegie, 4.

My name, dear friend, even thy expiring breath

Did call upon: affirming that thy death

Would wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must be

Indeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee.

My Lord, if I with licence of your teares,

(Which your great brother's hearse as dyamonds weares

T' enrich deaths glory) may but speake my owne:

Ile prove it, that no sorrow ere was knowne

Reall as mine. All other mourners keepe

In griefe a method: without forme I weepe.

The sonne (rich in his fathers fate) hath eyes

Wet just as long as are the obsequies.

The widow formerly a yeare doth spend

In her so courtly blackes. But for a Friend

We weepe an age, and more than th' Achorit, have

Our very thoughts confin'd within a Grave.

Chast Love who hadst thy tryumph in my flame

And thou Castara who had hadst a name,

But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verse

Is lost to you, and onely on Talbots herse

Sadly attends. And till times fatall hand

Ruines, what's left of Churches, there shall stand.

There to thy selfe, deare Talbot, Ile repeate

Thy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how great

Thou wert in thy mindes Empire, and how all

Who out-live thee, see but the Funerall

Of glory: and if yet some vertuous be,

They but weake apparitions are of thee.

So setled were thy thoughts, each action so

Discreetely ordered, that nor ebbe nor flow

Was ere perceiv'd in thee: each word mature

And every sceane of life from sinne so pure

That scarce in its whole history, we can

Finde vice enough, to say thou wert but man.

Horror to say thou wert! Curst that we must

Addresse our language to a little dust,

And seeke for Talbot there. Injurious fate,

To lay my lifes ambition desolate.

Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know,

Not how it can give such another blow.

Elegie, 5.

Chast as the Nuns first vow, as fairely bright

As when by death her Soule shines in full light

Freed from th' Eclipse of earth, each word that came

From thee (deare Talbot) did beget a flame

T' enkindle vertue: which so faire by thee

Became, man, that blind mole, her face did see.

But now t'our eye she's lost, and if she dwell

Yet on the earth; she's coffin'd in the cell

Of some cold Hermit; who so keepes her there,

As if of her the old man jealous were.

Nor ever showes her beauty, but to some

Carthusian, who even by his vow, is dumbe!

So 'mid the yce of the farre Northern sea,

A starre about the Articke Circle, may

Then ours yeeld clearer light; yet that but shall

Serve at the frozen Pilots funerall.

Thou (brightest constellation) to this maine

Which all we sinners traffique on, didst daigne

The bounty of thy fire, which with so cleare

And constant beames did our frayle vessels steare,

That safely we, what storme so ere bore sway,

Past ore the rugged Alpes of th' angry Sea.

But now we sayle at randome. Every rocke

The folly doth of our ambition mocke

And splits our hopes: To every Sirens breath

We listen and even court the face of death,

If painted ore by pleasure: Every wave

Ift hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave:

So ruinous is the defect of thee,

To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to me

Who liv'd one life with thine, drew but one breath,

Possest with th' same mind and thoughts, 'twas death.

And now by fate: I but my selfe survive,

To keepe his mem'ry, and my griefes alive.

Where shall I then begin to weepe? No grove

Silent and darke, but is prophan'd by Love:

With his warme whispers, and faint idle feares,

His busie hopes, loud sighes, and causelesse teares

Each eare is so enchanted; that no breath

Is listned to, which mockes report of death.

I'le turne my griefe then inward and deplore

My ruine to my selfe, repeating ore

The story of his vertues; untill I

Not write, but am my selfe his Elegie.

Elegie, 6.

Goe stop the swift-wing'd moments in their flight

To their yet unknowne coast, goe hinder night

From its approach on day, and force day rise

From the faire East of some bright beauties eyes:

Else vaunt not the proud miracle of verse.

It hath no powre. For mine from his blacke herse

Redeemes not Talbot, who cold as the breath

Of winter, coffin'd lyes; silent as death,

Stealing on th' Anch'rit, who even wants an eare

To breath into his soft expiring prayer.

For had thy life beene by thy vertues spun

Out to a length, thou hadst out-liv'd the Sunne

And clos'd the worlds great eye: or were not all

Our wonders fiction, from thy funerall

Thou hadst received new life, and liv'd to be

The conqueror o're death, inspir'd by me.

But all we Poets glory in, is vaine

And empty triumph: Art cannot regaine

One poore houre lost, nor reskew a small flye

By a fooles finger destinate to dye.

Live then in thy true life (great soule) for set

At liberty by death thou owest no debt

T' exacting Nature: Live, freed from the sport

Of time and fortune in yand' starry court

A glorious Potentate, while we below

But fashion wayes to mitigate our woe.

We follow campes, and to our hopes propose

Th' insulting victor; not remembring those

Dismembred trunkes who gave him victory

By a loath'd fate: We covetous Merchants be

And to our aymes pretend treasure and sway,

Forgetfull of the treasons of the Sea.

The shootings of a wounded conscience

We patiently sustaine to serve our sence

With a short pleasure; So we empire gaine

And rule the fate of businesse, the sad paine

Of action we contemne, and the affright

Which with pale visions still attends our night.

Our joyes false apparitions, but our feares

Are certaine prophecies. And till our eares

Reach that cælestiall musique, which thine now

So cheerefully receive, we must allow

No comfort to our griefes: from which to be

Exempted, is in death to follow thee.

Elegie, 7.

There is no peace in sinne. Æternall war

Doth rage 'mong vices. But all vertues are

Friends 'mong themselves, and choisest accents be

Harsh Eccho's of their heavenly harmonie.

While thou didst live we did that union finde

In the so faire republick of thy mind,

Where discord never swel'd. And as we dare

Affirme those goodly structures, temples are

Where well-tun'd quires strike zeale into the eare:

The musique of thy soule made us say, there

God had his Altars; every breath a spice

And each religious act a sacrifice.

But death hath that demolisht. All our eye

Of thee now sees doth like a Cittie lye

Raz'd by the cannon. Where is then that flame

That added warmth and beauty to thy frame?

Fled heaven-ward to repaire, with its pure fire

The losses of some maim'd Seraphick quire?

Or hovers it beneath, the world t' uphold

From generall ruine, and expell that cold

Dull humor weakens it? If so it be;

My sorrow yet must prayse fates charity.

But thy example (if kinde heaven had daignd

Frailty that favour) had mankind regaind

To his first purity. For that the wit

Of vice, might not except 'gainst th' Ancherit

As too to strickt; thou didst uncloyster'd live:

Teaching the soule by what preservative,

She may from sinnes contagion live secure,

Though all the ayre she suckt in, were impure.

In this darke mist of error with a cleare

Unspotted light, thy vertue did appeare

T' obrayd corrupted man. How could the rage

Of untam'd lust have scorcht decrepit age;

Had it seene thy chast youth? Who could the wealth

Of time have spent in ryot, or his health

By surfeits forfeited; if he had seene

What temperance had in thy dyet beene?

What glorious foole had vaunted honours bought

By gold or practise, or by rapin brought

From his fore-fathers, had he understood

How Talbot valued not his owne great blood!

Had Politicians seene him scorning more

The unsafe pompe of greatnesse, then the poore

Thatcht roofes of shepheards, where th' unruly wind

(A gentler storme than pride) uncheckt doth find

Still free admittance: their pale labors had

Beene to be good, not to be great and bad.

But he is lost in a blind vault, and we

Must not admire though sinnes now frequent be

And uncontrol'd: Since those faire tables where

The Law was writ by death now broken are,

By death extinguisht is that Star, whose light

Did shine so faithfull: that each ship sayl'd right

Which steer'd by that. Nor marvell then if we,

(That sailing) lost in this worlds tempest be.

But to what Orbe so ere thou dost retyre,

Far from our ken: tis blest, while by thy fire

Enlighten'd. And since thou must never here

Be seene againe: may I ore-take thee there.

Elegie, 8.

Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor all

The cunning Pompe of the Escuriall.

Though there both th' Indies met in each smal room

Th' are short in treasure of this precious tombe.

Here is th' Epitome of wealth, this chest

Is Natures chiefe Exchequer, hence the East

When it is purified by th' generall fire

Shall see these now pale ashes sparkle higher

Then all the gems she vants: transcending far

In fragrant lustre the bright morning star.

Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather we

Have by a cataract lost sight, then he

Though dead his glory. So to us blacke night

Brings darkenesse, when the Sun retaines his light.

Thou eclips'd dust! Expecting breake of day

From the thicke mists about thy Tombe, I'le pay

Like the just Larke, the tribute of my verse

I will invite thee, from thy envious herse

To rise, and 'bout the World thy beames to spread,

That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead.

My zeale deludes me not. What perfumes come

From th' happy vault? In her sweete martyrdome

The nard breathes never so, nor so the rose

When the enamor'd Spring by kissing blowes

Soft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early East

Vying with Paradice, ith' Phœnix nest.

These gentle perfumes usher in the day

Which from the night of his discolour'd clay

Breakes on the sudden: for a Soule so bright

Of force must to her earth contribute light.

But if w' are so far blind, we cannot see

The wonder of this truth; yet let us be

Not infidels: nor like dull Atheists give

Our selves so long to lust, till we believe

(T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fall

To a loath'd nothing in our Funerall.

The bad mans death is horror. But the just

Keepe something of his glory in his dust.

FINIS.

Castara: The Third Part

CASTARA:
THE
THIRD PART.

LONDON
Printed by Tho. Cotes, for
Will. Cooke 1640.

A Holy Man

Is onely Happie. For infelicity and sinne were borne twinnes; Or rather like some prodigie with two bodies, both draw and expire the same breath. Catholique faith is the foundation on which he erects Religion; knowing it a ruinous madnesse to build in the ayre of a private spirit, or on the sands of any new schisme. His impietie is not so bold to bring divinity downe to the mistake of reason, or to deny those misteries his apprehension reacheth not. His obedience moves still by direction of the Magistrate: And should conscience informe him that the command is unjust; he judgeth it neverthelesse high treason by rebellion to make good his tenets; as it were the basest cowardize, by dissimulation of religion, to preserve temporall respects. Hee knowes humane pollicie but a crooked rule of action: and therefore by a distrust of his owne knowledge attaines it: Confounding with supernaturall illumination, the opinionated judgment of the wise. In prosperity he gratefully admires the bounty of the Almighty giver, and useth, not abuseth plenty: But in adversity hee remaines unshaken, and like some eminent mountaine hath his head above the clouds. For his happinesse is not meteor-like exhaled from the vapors of this world; but shines a fixt starre, which when by misfortune it appeares to fall, onely casts away the slimie matter. Poverty he neither feares nor covets, but cheerefully entertaines; imagining it the fire which tries vertue: Nor how tyrannically soever it usurpe on him, doth he pay to it a sigh or wrinckle: for he who suffers want without reluctancie, may be poore not miserable. He sees the covetous prosper by usury, yet waxeth not leane with envie: and when the prosperitie of the impious flourish, he questiones not the divine justice; for temporall rewards distinguish not ever the merits of men: and who hath beene of councel with the Æternall? Fame he weighes not, but esteemes a smoake, yet such as carries with it the sweetest odour, and riseth usually from the Sacrifice of our best actions. Pride he disdaines, when he findes it swelling in himselfe; but easily forgiveth it in another: Nor can any mans error in life, make him sinne in censure, since seldome the folly we condemne is so culpable as the severity of our judgement. He doth not malice the over-spreading growth of his equalls: but pitties, not despiseth the fall of any man: Esteeming yet no storme of fortune dangerous, but what is rais'd through our owne demerit. When he lookes on others vices, he values not himselfe vertuous by comparison, but examines his owne defects, and findes matter enough at home for reprehension: In conversation his carriage is neither plausible to flattery, nor reserv'd to rigor: but so demeanes himselfe as created for societie. In solitude he remembers his better part is Angelicall; and therefore his minde practiseth the best discourse without assistance of inferiour Organs. Lust is the Basiliske he flyes, a Serpent of the most destroying venome: for it blasts al plants with the breath, and carries the most murdering Artillery in the eye: He is ever merry but still modest. Not dissolved into undecent laughter, or trickled with wit scurrilous or injurious. He cunningly searcheth into the vertues of others, and liberally commends them: but buries the vices of the imperfect in a charitable silence, whose manners he reformes not by invectives but example: In prayer he is frequent not apparent: yet as he labours not the opinion, so he feares not the scandall of being thought good. He every day travailes his meditations up to heaven, and never findes himself wearied with the journey: but when the necessities of nature returne him downe to earth, he esteemes it a place, hee is condemned to. Devotion is his Mistresse on which he is passionately enamord: for that he hath found the most Soveraigne antidote against sinne, and the onely balsome powerfull to cure those wounds hee hath receav'd through frailety. To live he knowes a benefit, and the contempt of it ingratitude, and therefore loves, but not doates on life. Death how deformed soever an aspect it weares, he is not frighted with: since it not annihilates, but uncloudes the soule. He therefore stands every movement prepared to dye: and though he freely yeelds up himself, when age or sicknesse sommon him; yet he with more alacritie puts off his earth, when the profession of faith crownes him a martyr.

Twenty-two Poems, chiefly Sacred, with Scripture Text.

Domine labia mea aperies David.

Noe monument of me remaine,

My mem'orie rust

In the same marble with my dust:

Ere I the spreadingst Laurell gaine,

By writing wanton or profane.

Ye glorious wonders of the skies,

Shine still bright starres,

Th' Almighties mystick Characters!

Ile not your beautious lights surprise

T' illuminate a womans eyes.

Nor to perfume her veins, will I

In each one set

The purple of the violet.

The untoucht flowre may grow and dye

Safe from my fancies injurie.

Open my lippes, great God! and then

Ile soare above

The humble flight of carnall love.

Upward to thee Ile force my pen,

And trace no path of vulgar men.

For what can our unbounded soules

Worthy to be

Their object finde, excepting thee?

Where can I fixe? since time controules

Our pride, whose motion all things roules.

Should I my selfe ingratiate

T' a Princes smile;

How soone may death my hopes beguile?

And should I farme the proudest state,

I'me Tennant to uncertaine fate.

If I court gold; will it not rust?

And if my love

Toward a female beauty move;

How will that surfet of our lust

Distast us, when resolv'd to dust?

But thou Æternall banquet! where

For ever we

May feede without satietie!

Who harmonie art to the eare,

Who art, while all things else appeare!

While up to thee I shoote my flame

Thou dost dispence

A holy death, that murders sence,

And makes me scorne all pompes, that ayme

All other triumphs than thy name.

It crownes me with a victory

So heavenly, all

That's earth from me away doth fall.

And I, from my corruption free,

Grow in my vowes even part of thee.

Versa est in luctum cythara mea. Job.

Love! I no orgies sing

Whereby thy mercies to invoke:

Nor from the East rich perfumes bring

To cloude the Altars with thy precious smoake.

Nor while I did frequent

Those fanes by lovers rais'd to thee:

Did I loose heathenish rites invent,

To force a blush from injur'd Chastitie.

Religious was the charme

I used affection to intice:

And thought none burnt more bright or warme,

Yet chaste as winter was the Sacrifice.

But now I thee bequeath

To the soft silken youths at Court:

Who may their witty passions breath,

To raise their Mistresse smile, or make her sport.

They'le smooth thee into rime,

Such as shall catch the wanton eare:

And win opinion with the time,

To make them a high sayle of honour beare.

And may a powerfull smile

Cherish their flatteries of wit!

While I my life of fame beguile

And under my owne vine uncounted sit.

For I have seene the Pine

Famed for its travels ore the Sea:

Broken with stormes and age decline,

And in some creeke unpittied rot away.

I have seene Cædars fall,

And in their roome a Mushrome grow:

I have seene Comets, threatning all,

Vanish themselves: I have seene Princes so.

Vaine triviall dust! weake man!

Where is that vertue of thy breath,

That others save or ruine can,

When thou thy selfe art cal'd t'account by death?

When I consider thee

The scorne of Time, and sport of fate:

How can I turne to jollitie

My ill-strung Harpe, and court the delicate?

How can I but disdaine

The emptie fallacies of mirth;

And in my midnight thoughts retaine,

How high so ere I spread, my root's in earth?

Fond youth! too long I playd

The wanton with a false delight.

Which when I toucht, I found a shade

That onely wrought on th' error of my sight.

Then since pride doth betray

The soule to flatter'd ignorance:

I from the World will steale away

And by humility my thoughts advance.

Perdam Sapientiam Sapientum
To the Right Honorable the Lord Windsor.

My Lord,

Forgive my envie to the World; while I

Commend those sober thoughts, perswade you

The glorious troubles of the Court. For though

The vale lyes open to each overflow,

And in the humble shade we gather ill

And aguish ayres: yet lightnings oftner kill

Oth' naked heights of mountaines, whereon we

May have more prospect, not securitie.

For when with losse of breath, we have orecome

Some steepe ascent of power, and forc'd a roome

On the so envi'd hill; how doe our hearts

Pant with the labour, and how many arts

More subtle must we practise, to defend

Our pride from sliding, then we did t' ascend?

How doth successe delude the mysteries

And all th' involv'd designements of the wise?

How doth that Power, our Pollitickes call chance,

Racke them till they confesse the ignorance

Of humane wit? Which, when 'tis fortified

So strong with reason that it doth deride

All adverse force oth' sudden findes its head

Intangled in a spiders slender thread.

Cœlestiall Providence! How thou dost mocke

The boast of earthly wisdome? On some rocke

When man hath a structure, with such art,

It doth disdaine to tremble at the dart

Of thunder, or to shrinke oppos'd by all

The angry winds, it of it selfe doth fall,

Ev'n in a calme so gentle that no ayre

Breaths loude enough to stirre a Virgins haire!

But misery of judgement: Though past time

Instruct us by th' ill fortune of their crimes,

And shew us how we may secure our state

From pittied ruine, by anothers fate;

Yet we contemning all such sad advice,

Pursue to build though on a precipice.

But you (my Lord) prevented by foresight

To engage your selfe to such an unsafe height,

And in your selfe both great and rich enough

Refused t'expose your vessell to the rough

Uncertaine sea of businesse: whence even they

Who make the best returne, are forc't to say:

The wealth we by our worldly traffique gaine,

Weighes light if ballanc'd with the feare or paine.

Paucitatem dierum meorum nuncia mihi. David.

Tell me O great All knowing God!

What period

Hast thou unto my dayes assign'd?

Like some old leafelesse tree, shall I

Wither away: or violently

Fall by the axe, by lightning, or the Wind?

Heere, where I first drew vitall breath

Shall I meete death?

And finde in the same vault a roome

Where my fore-fathers ashes sleepe?

Or shall I dye, where none shall weepe

My timelesse fate, and my cold earth intombe?

Shall I 'gainst the swift Parthians fight

And in their flight

Receive my death? Or shall I see

That envied peace, in which we are

Triumphant yet, disturb'd by warre;

And perish by th' invading enemie?

Astrologers, who calculate

Uncertaine fate

Affirme my scheme doth not presage

Any abridgement of my dayes:

And the Phisitian gravely sayes,

I may enjoy a reverent length of age.

But they are jugglers, and by slight

Of art the sight

Of faith delude: and in their schoole

They onely practise how to make

A mistery of each mistake,

And teach strange words, credulity to foole.

For thou who first didst motion give,

Whereby things live

And Time hath being! to conceale

Future events didst thinke it fit

To checke th' ambition of our wit,

And keepe in awe the curious search of zeale.

Therefore so I prepar'd still be,

My God for thee:

Oth' sudden on my spirits may

Some killing Apoplexie seize,

Or let me by a dull disease

Or weakened by a feeble age decay.

And so I in thy favour dye,

No memorie

For me a well-wrought tombe prepare,

For if my soule be 'mong the blest

Though my poore ashes want a chest,

I shall forgive the trespasse of my heire.

Non nobis Domine. David.

No marble statue, nor high

Aspiring Piramid be rays'd

To lose its head within the skie!

What claime have I to memory?

God be thou onely prais'd!

Thou in a moment canst defeate

The mighty conquests of the proude,

And blast the laurels of the great.

Thou canst make brightest glorie set

Oth' sudden in a cloude.

How can the feeble workes of Art

Hold out 'gainst the assault of stormes?

Or how can brasse to him impart

Sence of surviving fame, whose heart

Is now resolv'd to wormes?

Blinde folly of triumphing pride!

Æternitie why buildst thou here?

Dost thou not see the highest tide

Its humbled streame in th' Ocean hide,

And nere the same appeare?

That tide which did its banckes ore-flow,

As sent abroad by the angry sea

To levell vastest buildings low,

And all our Trophies overthrow;

Ebbes like a theefe away.

And thou who to preserve thy name

Leav'st statues in some conquer'd land!

How will posterity scorne fame,

When th' Idoll shall receive a maime,

And loose a foote or hand?

How wilt thou hate thy warres, when he

Who onely for his hire did raise

Thy counterfet in stone; with thee

Shall stand Competitor: and be

Perhapes thought worthier praise?

No Laurell wreath about my brow!

To thee, my God, all praise, whose law

The conquer'd doth and conqueror bow!

For both dissolve to ayre, if thou

Thy influence but withdraw.

Solum mihi superest sepulchrum. Job.

Welcome thou safe retreate!

Where th' injured man may fortifie

'Gainst the invasions of the great:

Where the leane slave, who th' Oare doth plye,

Soft as his Admirall may lye.

Great Statist! tis your doome

Though your designes swell high, and wide

To be contracted in a tombe!

And all your happie cares provide

But for your heire authorized pride.

Nor shall your shade delight

Ith' pompe of your proud obsequies.

And should the present flatterie write

A glorious Epitaph, the wise

Will say, The Poets wit here lyes.

How reconcil'd to fate

Will grow the aged Villager,

When he shall see your funerall state?

Since death will him as warme inter

As you in your gay sepulcher.

The great decree of God

Makes every path of mortals lead

To this darke common period.

For what by wayes so ere we tread,

We end our journey 'mong the dead.

Even I, while humble zeale

Makes fancie a sad truth indite,

Insensible a way doe steale:

And when I'me lost in deaths cold night,

Who will remember, now I write?

Et fugit velut umbra. Job.
To the Right Honourable the Lord Kintyre.

My Lord

That shadow your faire body made

So full of sport it still the mimick playde

Ev'n as you mov'd and look'd but yesterday

So huge in stature; Night hath stolen away.

And this is th' emblem of our life: To please

And flatter which, we sayle ore broken seas

Unfaithfull in their rockes and tides; we dare

All the sicke humors of a forraine ayre.

And mine so deepe in earth, as we would trie

To unlocke hell, should gold there hoarded lie.

But when we have built up a ædefice

T' outwrastle Time, we have but built on ice:

For firme however all our structures be,

Polisht with smoothest Indian Ivory,

Rais'd high on marble, our unthankfull heire

Will scarce retaine in memory, that we were.

Tracke through the ayre the footesteps of the wind,

And search the print of ships sayl'd by; then finde

Where all the glories of those Monarchs be

Who bore such sway in the worlds infancie.

Time hath devour'd them all: and scarce can fame

Give an account, that ere they had a name.

How can he then who doth the world controle

And strikes a terror now in either Pole,

Th' insulting Turke secure himself that he

Shall not be lost to dull Posterity?

And though the Superstition of those Times

Which deified Kings to warrant their owne crimes

Translated Cæsar to a starre; yet they,

Who every Region of the skie Survay;

In their Cœlestiall travaile, that bright coast

Could nere discover which containes his ghost.

And after death to make that awe survive

Which subjects owe their Princes yet alive,

Though they build pallaces of brasse and jet

And keepe them living in a counterfet;

The curious looker on soone passes by

And findes the tombe a sickenesse to his eye.

Neither when once the soule is gone doth all

The solemne triumph of the funerall

Adde to her glory or her paine release:

Then all the pride of warre, and wealth of peace

For which we toild, from us abstracted be

And onely serve to swell the history.

These are sad thoughts (my Lord) and such as fright

The easie soule made tender with delight,

Who thinkes that he hath forfetted that houre

Which addes not to his pleasure or his powre.

But by the friendship which your Lordship daignes

Your Servant, I have found your judgement raignes

Above all passion in you: and that sence

Could never yet demolish that strong fence

Which Vertue guards you with: By which you are

Triumphant in the best, the inward warre.

Nox nocti indicat Scientiam. David.

When I survay the bright

Cœlestiall spheare:

So rich with jewels hung, that night

Doth like an Æthiop bride appeare.

My soule her wings doth spread

And heaven-ward flies,

Th' Almighty's Mysteries to read

In the large volumes of the skies.

For the bright firmament

Shootes forth no flame

So silent, but is eloquent

In speaking the Creators name.

No unregarded star

Contracts its light

Into so small a Charactar,

Remov'd far from our humane sight:

But if we stedfast looke,

We shall discerne

In it as in some holy booke,

How man may heavenly knowledge learne.

It tells the Conqueror,

That farre-stretcht powre

Which his proud dangers traffique for,

Is but the triumph of an houre.

That from the farthest North;

Some Nation may

Yet undiscovered issue forth,

And ore his new got conquest sway.

Some Nation yet shut in

With hils of ice

May be let out to scourge his sinne

'Till they shall equall him in vice.

And then they likewise shall

Their ruine have,

For as your selves your Empires fall,

And every Kingdome hath a grave.

Thus those Cœlestiall fires,

Though seeming mute

The fallacie of our desires

And all the pride of life confute.

For they have watcht since first

The World had birth:

And found sinne in it selfe accurst,

And nothing permanent on earth.

Et alta a longè cognoscit. David.

To the cold humble hermitage

(Not tenanted but by discoloured age,

Or youth enfeebled by long prayer

And tame with fasts) th' Almighty doth repaire.

But from the lofty gilded roofe

Stain'd with some Pagan fiction, keepes a loofe.

Nor the gay Landlord daignes to know

Whose buildings are like Monsters but for show.

Ambition! whither wilt thee climbe,

Knowing thy art, the mockery of time?

Which by examples tells the high

Rich structures, they must as their owners dye:

And while they stand, their tennants are

Detraction, flattry, wantonnesse, and care,

Pride, envie, arrogance, and doubt,

Surfet, and ease still tortured by the gout.

O rather may I patient dwell

In th' injuries of an ill-cover'd cell!

'Gainst whose too weake defence the haile,

The angry winds, and frequent showres prevaile.

Where the swift measures of the day,

Shall be distinguisht onely as I pray:

And some starres solitary light

Be the sole taper to the tedious night.

The neighbo'ring fountaine (not accurst

Like wine with madnesse) shall allay my thirst:

And the wilde fruites of Nature give

Dyet enough, to let me feele I feele, I live.

You wantons! who impoverish Seas,

And th' ayre dispeople, your proud taste to please!

A greedy tyrant you obey

Who varies still its tribute with the day.

What interest doth all the vaine

Cunning of surfet to your sences gaine?

Since it obscure the Spirit must

And bow the flesh to sleep disease or lust.

While who forgetting rest and fare;

Watcheth the fall and rising of each starre,

Ponders how bright the orbes doe move,

And thence how much more bright the heav'ns above

Where on the heads of Cherubins

Th' Almightie sits disdaining our bold sinnes:

Who while on th' earth we groveling lye

Dare in our pride of building tempt the skie.

Universum stratum ejus versasti in infirmitate ejus. David.

My Soule! When thou and I

Shall on our frighted death-bed lye;

Each moment watching when pale death

Shall snatch away our latest breath,

And 'tweene two long joyn'd Lovers force

An endlesse sad divorce:

How wilt thou then? that art

My rationall and nobler part,

Distort thy thoughts? How wilt thou try

To draw from weake Philosophie

Some strength: and flatter thy poor state,

'Cause tis the common fate?

How wilt thy spirits pant

And tremble when they feele the want

Of th' usuall organs; and that all

The vitall powers begin to fall?

When 'tis decreed, that thou must goe,

Yet whither; who can know?

How fond and idle then

Will seeme the misteries of men?

How like some dull ill-acted part

The subtlest of proud humane art?

How shallow ev'n the deepest sea,

When thus we ebbe away?

But how shall I (that is

My fainting earth) looke pale at this?

Disjointed on the racke of paine.

How shall I murmur, how complaine;

And craving all the ayde of skill,

Finde none, but what must kill?

Which way so ere my griefe

Doth throw my sight to court releese,

I shall but meete despaire; for all

Will prophesie my funerall:

The very silence of the roome

Will represent a tombe.

And while my Childrens teares,

My Wives vaine hopes, but certaine feares,

And councells of Divines advance

Death in each dolefull circumstance:

I shall even a sad mourner be

At my owne obsequie.

For by examples I

Must know that others sorrowes dye

Soone as our selves, and none survive

To keepe our memories alive.

Even our fals tombes, as loath to say

We once had life, decay.

Laudate Dominum de cœlis. David.

You Spirits! who have throwne away

That enveous weight of clay

Which your cælestiall flight denyed:

Who by your glorious troopes supply

The winged Hierarchie,

So broken in the Angells pride!

O you! whom your Creators sight

Inebriates with delight!

Sing forth the triumphs of his name

All you enamord soules! agree

In a loud symphonie:

To give expressions to your flame!

To him, his owne great workes relate,

Who daign'd to elevate

You 'bove the frailtie of your birth:

Where you stand safe from that rude warre,

With which we troubled are

By the rebellion of our earth.

While a corrupted ayre beneath

Here in this World we breath

Each houre some passion us assailes:

Now lust casts wild-fire in the blood,

Or that it may seeme good,

It selfe in wit or beauty vailes.

Then envie circles us with hate,

And lays a siege so streight,

No heavenly succor enters in:

But if Revenge admittance finde,

For ever hath the mind

Made forfeit of it selfe to sinne.

Assaulted thus, how dare we raise

Our mindes to thinke his praise,

Who is Æternall and immens?

How dare we force our feeble wit

To speake him infinite,

So farre above the search of sence?

O you! who are immaculate

His name may celebrate

In your soules bright expansion.

You whom your venues did unite

To his perpetuall light,

That even with him you now shine one.

While we who t' earth contract our hearts,

And onely studie Arts

To shorten the sad length of Time:

In place of joyes bring humble feares:

For hymnes, repentant teares

And a new sigh for every crime.

Qui quasi flos egreditur.
To the Right Honourable, the Lady Cat. T.

Faire Madame! You

May see what's man in yond' bright rose.

Though it the wealth of Nature owes,

It is opprest, and bends with dew.

Which shewes, though fate

May promise still to warme our lippes,

And keepe our eyes from an ecclips;

It will our pride with teares abate.

Poor silly flowre!

Though in thy beauty thou presume,

And breath which doth the spring perfume;

Thou may'st be cropt this very houre.

And though it may

Then thy good fortune be, to rest

Oth' pillow of some Ladies brest;

Thou'lt whither, and be throwne away.

For 'tis thy doome

However, that there shall appeare

No memory that thou grew'st heere,

Ere the tempestuous winter come.

But flesh is loath

By meditation to fore see

How loath'd a nothing it must be:

Proud in the triumphes of its growth.

And tamely can

Behold this mighty world decay

And weare by th' age of time away:

Yet not discourse the fall of man.

But Madam these

Are thoughts to cure sicke humane pride.

And med'cines are in vaine applyed.

To bodies far 'bove all disease.

For you so live

As th' Angels in one perfect state;

Safe from the ruines of our fate,

By vertues great preservative.

And though we see

Beautie enough to warme each heart;

Yet you by a chaste Chimicke Art,

Calcine fraile love to pietie.

Quid gloriaris in malicia? David.

Swell no more proud man, so high!

For enthron'd where ere you sit

Rais'd by fortune, sinne and wit:

In a vault thou dust must lye.

He who's lifted up by vice

Hath a neighb'ring precipice

Dazeling his distorted eye.

Shallow is that unsafe sea

Over which you spread your saile:

And the Barke you trust to, fraile

As the Winds it must obey.

Mischiefe, while it prospers, brings

Favour from the smile of Kings;

Uselesse soone is throwne away.

Profit, though sinne it extort,

Princes even accounted good,

Courting greatnesse nere withstood,

Since it Empire doth support.

But when death makes them repent

They condemne the instrument,

And are thought Religious for 't.

Pitch'd downe from that height you beare,

How distracted will you lye;

When your flattering Clients flye

As your fate infectious were?

When of all th' obsequious throng

That mov'd by your eye and tongue,

None shall in the storme appeare?

When that abject insolence

(Which submits to the more great,

And disdaines the weaker state,

As misfortune were offence)

Shall at Court be judged a crime

Though in practise, and the Time

Purchase wit at your expence.

Each small tempest shakes the proud;

Whose large branches vainely sprout

'Bove the measure of the roote.

But let stormes speake nere so loud,

And th' astonisht day benight;

Yet the just shines in a light

Faire as noone without a cloud.

Deus Deus Meus. David.

Where is that foole Philosophie,

That bedlam Reason, and that beast dull sence;

Great God! when I consider thee

Omnipotent, Æternall, and imens?

Unmov'd thou didst behold the pride

Of th' Angels, when they to defection fell?

And without passion didst provide

To punish treason, rackes and death in hell.

Thy Word created this great All,

Ith' lower part whereof we wage such warres:

The upper bright and sphæricall

By purer bodies tenanted, the starres.

And though sixe dayes it thee did please

To build this frame, the seventh for rest assigne;

Yet was it not thy paine or ease,

But to teach man the quantities of Time.

This world so mighty and so faire,

So 'bove the reach of all dimension:

If to thee God we should compare,

Is not the slenderst atome to the Sun.

What then am I poore nothing man!

That elevate my voyce and speake of thee?

Since no imagination can

Distinguish part of thy immensitie?

What am I who dare call thee God!

And raise my fancie to discourse thy power?

To whom dust is the period,

Who am not sure to farme this very houre?

For how know I the latest sand

In my fraile glasse of life, doth not now fall?

And while I thus astonisht stand

I but prepare for my own funerall?

Death doth with man no order keepe:

It reckons not by the expence of yeares,

But makes the Queene and beggar weepe,

And nere distinguishes betweene their teares.

He who the victory doth gaine

Falls as he him pursues, who from him flyes,

And is by too good fortune slaine.

The Lover in his amorous courtship dyes.

The states-man suddenly expires

While he for others ruine doth prepare:

And the gay Lady while sh' admires

Her pride, and curles in wanton nets her haire.

No state of man is fortified

'Gainst the assault of th' universall doome:

But who th' Almightie feare, deride

Pale death, and meete with triumph in the tombe.

Quonian ego in flagella paratus sum. David.

Fix me on some bleake precipice,

Where I ten thousand yeares may stand:

Made now a statute of ice,

Then by the summer scorcht and tan'd!

Place me alone in some fraile boate

'Mid th' horrors of an angry Sea:

Where I while time shall move, may floate

Despairing either land or day!

Or under earth my youth confine

To th' night and silence of a cell:

Where Scorpions may my limbes entwine.

O God! So thou forgive me hell.

Æternitie! when I think thee,

(Which never any end must have,

Nor knew'st beginning) and fore-see

Hell is design'd for sinne a grave.

My frighted flesh trembles to dust,

My blood ebbes fearefully away:

Both guilty that they did to lust,

And vanity, my youth betray.

My eyes, which from each beautious sight

Drew Spider-like blacke venome in:

Close like the marigold at night

Opprest with dew to bath my sin.

My eares shut up that easie dore

Which did proud fallacies admit:

And vow to heare no follies more;

Deafe to the charmes of sinne and wit.

My hands (which when they toucht some faire

Imagin'd such an excellence,

As th' Ermines skin ungentle were)

Contract themselves, and loose all sence.

But you bold sinners! still pursue

Your valiant wickednesse, and brave

Th' Almighty Justice: hee'le subdue

And make you cowards in the grave.

Then when he as your judge appeares,

In vaine you'le tremble and lament.

And hope to soften him with teares,

To no advantage penitent.

Then will you scorne those treasures, which

So fiercely now you doate upon:

Then curse those pleasures did bewitch

You to this sad illusion.

The neighb'ring mountaines which you shall

Wooe to oppresse you with their weight:

Disdainefull will deny to fall,

By a sad death to ease your fate.

In vaine some midnight storme at sea

To swallow you, you will desire:

In vaine upon the wheels you'le pray

Broken with torments to expire.

Death, at the sight of which you start,

In a mad fury then you'le Court:

Yet hate th' expressions of your heart,

Which onely shall be sigh'd for sport.

No sorrow then shall enter in

With pitty the great judges eares.

This moment's ours. Once dead, his sin

Man cannot expiate with teares.

Militia est vita hominis.
To Sir Hen. Per.

Sir

Were it your appetite of glory, (which

In noblest times, did bravest soules bewitch

To fall in love with danger,) that now drawes

You to the fate of warre; it claimes applause:

And every worthy hand would plucke a bough

From the best spreading bay, to shade your brow.

Since you unforc'd part from your Ladies bed

Warme with the purest love, to lay your head

Perhaps on some rude turfe, and sadly feele

The nights cold dampes wrapt in a sheete of steele.

You leave your well grown woods; and meadows which

Our Severne doth with fruitfull streames enrich.

Your woods where we see such large heards of Deere

Your meades whereon such goodly flockes appeare.

You leave your Castle, safe both for defence

And sweetely wanton with magnificence

With all the cost and cunning beautified

That addes to state, where nothing wants but pride.

These charmes might have bin pow'rful to have staid

Great mindes resolv'd for action, and betraid

You to a glorious ease: since to the warre

Men by desire of prey invited are,

Whom either sinne or want makes desperate,

Or else disdaine of their owne narrow fate.

But you, nor hope of fame or a release

Of the most sober government in peace,

Did to the hazard of the armie bring

Onely a pure devotion to the King

In whose just cause whoever fights, must be

Triumphant: since even death is victory.

And what is life, that we to wither it

To a weake wrinckled age, should torture wit

To finde out Natures secrets; what doth length

Of time deserve, if we want heate and strength?

When a brave quarrell doth to arms provoke

Why should we feare to venter this thin smoke

This emptie shadow, life? this which the wise

As the fooles Idoll, soberly despise?

Why should we not throw willingly away

A game we cannot save, now that we may

Gaine honour by the gift? since haply when

We onely shall be statue of men

And our owne monuments, Peace will deny

Our wretched age so brave a cause to dye.

But these are thoughts! And action tis doth give

A soule to courage, and make vertue live:

Which doth not dwell upon the valiant tongue

Of bold Philosophie, but in the strong

Undaunted spirit, which encounters those

Sad dangers, we to fancie scarce propose.

Yet tis the true and highest fortitude

To keepe our inward enemies subdued:

Not to permit our passions over sway

Our actions, not our wanton flesh betray

The soules chaste Empire: for however we

To th' outward shew may gaine a victory

And proudly triumph: if to conquour sinne

We combate not, we are at warre within.

Vias tuas Domine demonstra mihi.

Where have I wandred? In what way

Horrid as night

Increast by stormes did I delight?

Though my sad soule did often say

Twas death and madnesse so to stray.

On that false ground I joy'd to tread

Which seemed most faire,

Though every path had a new snare,

And every turning still did lead,

To the darke Region of the dead.

But with the surfet of delight

I am so tyred

That now I loath what I admired,

And my distasted appetite

So 'bhors the meate, it hates the sight.

For should we naked sinne discry

Not beautified

By th' ayde of wantonnesse and pride

Like some mishapen birth, 'twould lye

A torment to th' affrighted eye.

But cloath'd in beauty and respect.

Even ore the wise,

How powerfull doth it tyrannize!

Whose monstrous storme should they detract

They famine sooner would affect.

And since those shadowes which oppresse

My sight begin

To cleere, and show the shape of sinne,

A Scorpion sooner be my guest,

And warme his venome in my brest.

May I before I growe so vile

By sinne agen,

Be throwne off as a scorne to men!

May th' angry world decree, t' exile

Me to some yet unpeopled Isle.

Where while I struggle, and in vaine

Labor to finde

Some creature that shall have a minde,

What justice have I to complaine

If I thy inward grace retaine?

My God if thou shalt not exclude

Thy comfort thence:

What place can seeme to troubled sence

So melancholly darke and rude,

To be esteem'd a solitude.

Cast me upon some naked shore

Where I may tracke

Onely the print of some sad wracke;

If thou be there, though the seas rore,

I shall no gentler calme implore.

Should the Cymmerians, whom no ray

Doth ere enlight

But gaine thy grace, th' have lost their night:

Not sinners at high noone, but they

'Mong their blind cloudes have found the day.

Et Exultavit Humiles.

How cheerefully th' unpartiall Sunne

Gilds with his beames

The narrow streames

Oth' Brooke which silently doth runne

Without a name?

And yet disdaines to lend his flame

To the wide channell of the Thames?

The largest mountaines barren lye

And lightning feare,

Though they appeare

To bid defiance to the skie;

Which in one houre

W' have seene the opening earth devoure

When in their height they proudest were.

But th' humble man heaves up his head

Like some rich vale

Whose fruites nere faile

With flowres, with corne, and vines ore-spread.

Nor doth complaine

Oreflowed by an ill season'd raine

Or batter'd by a storme of haile.

Like a tall Barke with treasure fraught

He the seas cleere

Doth quiet steere:

But when they are t' a tempest wrought;

More gallantly

He spreads his saile, and doth more high

By swelling of the waves, appeare.

For the Almighty joyes to force

The glorious tide

Of humane pride

To th' lowest ebbe; that ore his course

(Which rudely bore

Downe what oppos'd it heretofore)

His feeblest enemie may stride.

But from his ill-thatcht roofe he brings

The Cottager

And doth preferre

Him to th' adored state of Kings:

He bids that hand

Which labour hath made rough and tand

The all commanding Scepter beare.

Let then the mighty cease to boast

Their boundlesse sway:

Since in their Sea

Few sayle, but by some storme are lost.

Let them themselves

Beware, for they are their owne shelves.

Man still himselfe hath cast away.

Dominus Dominantium.

Supreame Divinitie! Who yet

Coulde ever finde

By the bold scrutinie of wit,

The treasurie where thou lock'st up the wind?

What Majesty of Princes can

A tempest awe;

When the distracted Ocean

Swells to Sedition, and obeyes no Law?

How wretched doth the Tyrant stand

Without a boast?

When his rich fleete even touching land

He by some storme in his owne Port sees lost?

Vaine pompe of life! what narrow bound

Ambition

Is circled with? How false a ground

Hath humane pride to build its triumphs on.

And Nature how dost thou delude

Our search to know?

When the same windes which here intrude

On us with frosts and onely winter blow:

Breath temprate on th' adjoyning earth;

And gently bring

To the glad field a fruitfull birth

With all the treasures of a wanton Spring.

How diversly death doth assaile;

How sporting kill?

While one is scorcht up in the vale

The other is congeald oth' neighboring hill.

While he with heates doth dying glow

Above he sees

The other hedg'd in with his snow

And envies him his ice although he freeze.

Proud folly of pretending Art,

Be ever dumbe,

And humble thy aspiring heart,

When thou findest glorious Reason overcome.

And you Astrologers, whose eye

Survayes the starres!

And offer thence to prophesie

Successe in peace, and the event of warres.

Throw downe your eyes upon that dust

You proudly tread!

And know to that resolve you must!

That is the scheme where all their fate may read.

Cogitabo pro peccato meo.

In what darke silent grove

Profan'd by no unholy love

Where witty melancholy nere

Did carve the trees or wound the ayre,

Shall I religious leasure winne

To weepe away my sinne?

How fondly have I spent

My youthes unvalued treasure, lent

To traffique for Cœlestiall joyes?

My unripe yeares pursuing toyes;

Judging things best that were most gay

Fled unobserv'd away.

Growne elder I admired

Our Poets as from heaven inspired

What Obeliskes decreed I fit

For Spencers Art, and Sydnyes wit?

But waxing sober soone I found

Fame but an Idle sound.

Then I my blood obey'd

And each bright face an Idoll made:

Verse in an humble Sacrifice,

I offer'd to my Mistresse eyes,

But I no sooner grace did win

But met the devill within.

But growne more polliticke

I tooke account of each state tricke:

Observ'd each motion, judg'd him wise,

Who had a conscience fit to rise.

Whome soone I found but forme and rule

And the more serious foole.

But now my soule prepare

To ponder what and where we are

How fraile is life, how vaine a breath

Opinion, how uncertaine death:

How onely a poore stone shall beare

Witnesse that once we were.

How a shrill Trumpet shall

Us to the barre as traytors call.

Then shall we see too late that pride

Hath hope with flattery bely'd

And that the mighty in command

Pale Cowards there must stand.

Recogitabo tibi omnes annos meos. Isay.

Time! where didst thou those years inter

Which I have seene decease?

My soules at war and truth bids her

Finde out their hidden Sepulcher,

To give her troubles peace.

Pregnant with flowers doth not the Spring

Like a late bride appeare?

Whose fether'd Musicke onely bring

Caresses, and no Requiem sing

On the departed yeare?

The Earth, like some rich wanton heire,

Whose Parents coffin'd lye,

Forgets it once lookt pale and bare

And doth for vanities prepare,

As the Spring nere should dye.

The present houre, flattered by all

Reflects not on the last;

But I, like a sad factor shall

T' account my life each moment call,

And onely weepe the past.

My mem'ry trackes each severall way

Since Reason did begin

Over my actions her first sway:

And teacheth me that each new day

Did onely vary sin.

Poor banckrout Conscience! where are those

Rich houres but farm'd to thee?

How carelessely I some did lose,

And other to my lust dispose

As no rent day should be?

I have infected with impure

Disorders my past yeares.

But Ile to penitence inure

Those that succeed. There is no cure

Nor Antidote but teares.

Cupio dissolvi. Paule.

The soule which doth with God unite,

Those gayities how doth she slight

Which ore opinion sway?

Like sacred Virgin wax, which shines

On Altars or on Martyrs shrines

How doth she burne away?

How violent are her throwes till she

From envious earth delivered be,

Which doth her flight restraine?

How doth she doate on whips and rackes,

On fires and the so dreaded Axe,

And every murd'ring paine?

How soone she leaves the pride of wealth,

The flatteries of youth and health

And fames more precious breath.

And every gaudy circumstance

That doth the pompe of life advance

At the approach of death?

The cunning of Astrologers

Observes each motion of the starres

Placing all knowledge there:

And Lovers in their Mistresse eyes

Contract those wonders of the skies,

And seeke no higher sphere.

The wandring Pilot sweates to find

The causes that produce the wind

Still gazing on the Pole.

The Politician scornes all Art

But what doth pride and power impart.

And swells the ambitious soule.

But he whom heavenly fire doth warme,

And 'gainst these powerful follies arme,

Doth soberly disdaine

All these fond humane misteries

As the deceitfull and unwise

Distempers of our braine.

He as a burden beares his clay,

Yet vainely throwes it not away

On every idle cause:

But with the same untroubled eye

Can resolve to live or dye,

Regardlesse of th' applause.

My God! If 'tis thy great decree

That this must the last moment be

Wherein I breath this ayre;

My heart obeyes joy'd to retreate

From the false favours of the great

And treachery of the faire.

When thou shalt please this soule t' enthrone,

Above impure corruption;

What shall I grieve or feare.

To thinke this breathlesse body must

Become a loathsome heape of dust

And nere againe appeare.

For in the fire when Ore is tryed,

And by that torment purified:

Doe we deplore the losse?

And when thou shalt my soule refine,

That it thereby may purer shine

Shall I grieve for the drosse?

FINIS.

A List of WORKS

Edited by
Professor EDWARD ARBER

F.S.A.; Fellow of King's College, London; Hon. Member of the Virginia
and Wisconsin Historical Societies; late English Examiner at the
London University; and also at the Victoria University,
Manchester; Emeritus Professor of English Language and
Literature, Mason College, Birmingham.

• An English Garner
• English Reprints
• The War Library
• The English Scholar's Library
• The first Three English Books on America
• The first English New Testament, 1526
• The Paston Letters, 1422-1509. Edited by James Gairdner. 3 vols.
• A List of 837 London Publishers, 1553-1640

All the Works in this Catalogue are published at net prices.

ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND CO.,
14, PARLIAMENT ST., WESTMINSTER.

Detailed Transcriber's Notes

Archaic, dialectical and other spellings not in current usage have been left as in the original book. Obvious misprints have been fixed. Text that was originally printed in blackletter has been changed to bold without any further comment. Details of the changes follow.