Chapter III: Part 3

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.

ARAPH. _Castara_, you too fondly court
The silken peace with which we cover'd are,
Unquiet time may for his sport,
Up from its iron den rowse sleepy warre.

CAST. Then in the language of the drum,
I will instruct my yet affrighted eare,
All women shall in me be dumbe;
If I but with my _Araphill_ be there?

ARAPH. If Fate like an unfaithfull gale,
Which having vow'd to th' ship a faire event,
Oth' sudden rends her hopefull saile;
Blow ruine; will _Castara_ then repent?

CAST. Love shall in that tempestuous showre
Her brightest blossome like the blacke-thorne show:
Weake friendship prospers by the powre
Of fortunes Sunne. I'le in her winter grow.

ARAPH. If on my skin the noysome skar
I should oth'leprosie, or canker weare;
Or if the sulph'rous breath of warre
Should blast my youth; Should I not be thy feare?

CAST. In flesh may sicknesse horror move,
But heavenly zeale will be by it refin'd,
For then wee'd like two Angels love,
Without a sense; imbrace[22] each others mind.

ARAPH. Were it not impious to repine;
'Gainst rigid Fate I should direct my breath.
That two must be, whom heaven did joyne
In such a happy one, disjoyn'd by death.

CAST. That's no divource. Then shall we see
The rites in life, were types o'th marriage state,
Our soules on earth contracted be;
But they in heaven their nuptials consumate.

[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_ Mr. 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._