Part 4

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_, Mr. 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.

NIGHT. Let silence close my troubled eyes, Thy feare in _Lethe_ steepe: The starres bright cent'nels of the skies, Watch to secure thy sleepe.

ARAPH. The Norths unruly spirit lay In the disorder'd Seas: Make the rude Winter calme as _May_, And give a lover ease.

NIGHT. Yet why should feare with her pale charmes, Bewitch thee so to griefe? Since it prevents n' insuing harmes, Nor yeelds the past reliefe.

ARAPH. And yet such horror I sustaine As the sad vessell, when Rough tempests have incenst the Maine, Her Harbor now in ken.

NIGHT. No conquest weares a glorious wreath Which dangers not obtaine: Let tempests 'gainst thee shipwracke breathe, Thou shalt thy harbour gaine.

ARAPH. Truths _Delphos_ doth not still foretell, Though _Sol_ th' inspirer be. How then should night as blind as hell, Ensuing truths fore-see?

NIGHT. The Sunne yeelds man no constant flame. One light those Priests inspires. While I though blacke am still the same, And have ten thousand fires.

ARAPH. But those, sayes my propheticke feare, As funerall torches burne; While thou thy selfe the blackes dost weare, T' attend me to my Urne.

NIGHT. Thy feares abuse thee, for those lights In _Hymens_ Church shall shine, When he by th' mystery of his rites, Shall make _Castara_ thine.

_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 Mr._ Wm. 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_, Wm. 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_.