Castara The Third Edition of 1640; Edited and Collated with the Earlier Ones of 1634, 1635

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

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.

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.

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

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:—

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

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.

None.

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.]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Feare.	Checke thy forward thoughts, and know Hymen onely joynes their hands; Who with even paces goe, Shee in gold, he rich in lands.
Hope.	But Castara's purer fire, When it meetes a noble flame: Shuns the smoke of such desire, Joynes with love, and burnes the same.

Feare.	Yet obedience must prevaile, They who o're her actions sway: Would have her in th' Ocean saile, And contemne thy narrow sea.
Hope.	Parents lawes must beare no weight When they happinesse prevent. And our sea is not so streight, But it roome hath for content.
Feare.	Thousand hearts as victims stand, At the Altar of her eyes. And will partiall she command, Onely thine for sacrifice?
Hope.	Thousand victims must returne; Shee the purest will designe: Choose Castara which shall burne, Choose the purest, that is, mine.

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."

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.

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.

Araph.	Dost not thou Castara read Am'rous volumes in my eyes? Doth not every motion plead What I'de shew, and yet disguise? Sences act each others part. Eyes, as tongues, reveale the heart.
Cast.	I saw love, as lightning breake From thy eyes, and was content Oft to heare thy silence speake. Silent love is eloquent. So the sence of learning heares, The dumbe musicke of the Spheares.
Araph.	Then there's mercy in your kinde, Listning to an unfain'd love, Or strives he to tame the wind, Who would your compassion move? No y'are pittious, as y're faire. Heaven relents, o'recome by prayer.
Cast.	But loose man too prodigall Is in the expence of vowes; And thinks to him kingdomes fall When the heart of woman bowes: Frailty to your armes may yeeld; Who resists you, wins the field.
Araph.	Triumph not to see me bleede, Let the Bore chased[9] from his den, On the wounds of mankinde feede. Your soft sexe should pitty men. Malice well may practise Art, Love hath a transparent heart.
Cast.	Yet is love all one deceit, A warme frost, a frozen fire. She within her selfe is great, Who is slave to no desire. Let youth act, and age advise, And then love may finde his eyes.

Araph.	Hymens torch yeelds a dim light, When ambition joynes our hands. A proud day, but mournefull night, She sustaines, who marries lands. Wealth slaves man, but for their Ore, Th' Indians had beene free, though poore.
Cast.	And yet wealth the fuell is Which maintaines the nuptiall fire, And in honour there's a blisse. Th' are immortall who aspire. But truth sayes, no joyes are sweete, But where hearts united meete.
Araph.	Roses breath not such a sent, To perfume the neighbr'ing groves; As when you affirme content, In no spheare of glory moves. Glory narrow soules combines: Noble hearts Love onely joynes.

[9] chased. 1634, 1635.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.