[barre,

To live in silence, when the noyse o'th' bench
Nor deafens Westminster, nor corrupt French
Walkes Fleet-street in her gowne. Ruffes of the
By the vacation's powre, translated are
To cut-worke bands: and who were busie here,
Are gone to sow sedition in the shire.
The aire by this is purg'd, and the terme's strife
Thus fled the city: we the civill life
Lead happily. When in the gentle way
Of noble mirth, I have the long liv'd day
Contracted to a moment: I retire
To my Castara, and meet such a fire
Of mutual love, that if the city were
Infected, that would purifie the ayre.

LOVE'S ANNIVERSARIE.
TO THE SUNNE.

Thou art return'd (great light) to that blest houre
In which I first by marriage, sacred power,
Ioyn'd with Castara hearts: and as the same
Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame;
Which had increast, but that by Love's decree,
'Twas such at first, it ne're could greater be.
But tell me, (glorious lampe) in thy survey
Of things below thee, what did not decay
By age to weaknesse? I since that have seene
The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow greene
And wither, and the beauty of the field
With winter wrinkled. Even thy selfe dost yeeld
Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher;
But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire.

AGAINST THEM WHO LAY

UNCHASTITY TO THE SEX OF WOMEN.
THEY meet but with unwholesome springs,
And summers which infectious are:
They heare but when the meremaid sings,
And only see the falling starre :
Who ever dare

Affirme no woman chaste and faire.
Goe, cure your feavers; and you'le say
The Dog-dayes scorch not all the yeare:

In copper mines no longer stay,

But travel to the west, and there
The right ones fee

And grant all gold's not alchimie.

What madman, 'cause the glow-wormes's flame
Is cold, sweares there's no warmth in fire?
'Cause some make forfeit of their name,
And slave themselves to man's desire:
Shall the sex free

From guilt, damn'd to the bondage be?
Nor grieve, Castara, though 'twere fraile,
Thy vertue then would brighter shine,
When thy example should prevaile,
And every woman's faith be thine;
And were there none,
"Tis majesty to rule alone.

Those tragicke raptures, which your name shall
From the black edict of a tyrant grave. [save
Nor shall your day ere set, till the Sunne shall
From the blind Heavens like a cinder fall:
And all the elements intend their strife,
To ruine what they fram'd: then your fame's life,
When desp'rate Time lies gasping, shall expire,
Attended by the world i'th' general fire.
Fame lengthens thus her selfe: and I, to tread
Your steps to glory, search among the dead,
Where Vertue lies obscur'd, that as I give
Life to her tombe, I spight of time may live.
Now I resolve, in triumph of my verse,
To bring great Talbot from that forren hearse,
Which yet doth to her fright his dust enclose:
Then to sing Herbert, who so glorious rose,
With the fourth Edward, that his faith doth shine
Yet in the faith of noblest Pembroke's line.
To speak the mighty Percy, neerest heire,
Sometimes my swelling spirits I prepare
In merits as in blood, to CHARLES the great:
Then Darbie's worth and greatnesse to repeat,
Or Morley's honour, or Monteagle's fame,
Whose valour lives eternized in his name.
But while I think to sing these of my blood,
And my Castara's, Love's unruly flood
Breakes in, and beares away whatever stands
Built by my busie fancy on the sands.

TO THE HONOURABLE G. T.

LET not thy grones force Eccho from her cave, Or interrupt her weeping o're that wave, Which last Narcissus kist: let no darke grove Be taught to whisper stories of thy love.

What tho' the wind be turn'd? Canst thou not saile

By virtue of a cleane contrary gale,
Into some other port? Where thou wilt find

It was thy better genius chang'd the wind,

To steere thee to some island in the West,
For wealth and pleasure that transcends thy East.
Though Astrodora, like a sullen starre,
Eclipse her selfe; i'th' sky of beauty are
Ten thousand other fires, some bright as she,
And who, with milder beames, may shine on thee.

Nor yet doth this eclipse beare a portent,
That should affright the world. The firmament
Enjoys the light it did, a Sunne as cleare,
And the young Spring doth like a bride appeare,
As fairly wed to the Thessalian grove
As e're it was, though she and you not love.
And we two, who like bright stars have shin'd
I'th' heaven of friendship, are as firmly joyn'd
As blood and love first fram'd us. And to be
Lov'd, and thought worthy to be lov'd by thee,
Is to be glorious. Since fame cannot lend
An honour, equals that of Talbot's friend,
Nor envie me that my Castara's flame
Yeelds me a constant warmth: Though first I came
To marriage happy islands: Seas to thee
Will yeeld as smooth a way, and winds as free.
Which shall conduct thee (if hope may divine:)
To this delicious port: and inake love thine.

TO CASTARA.

THE REWARD OF INNOCENT LOVE.

We saw and woo'd each other's eyes,
My soule contracted then with thine,
And both burnt in one sacrifice,
By which our marriage grew divine.
Let wilder youth, whose soule is sense,
Prophane the temple of delight,
And purchase endlesse penitence,
With the stolne pleasure of one night.
Time's ever ours, while we despise
The sensuall idol of our clay,
For though the Sunne doe set and rise,
We joy one everlasting day.

Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,
While each of us shine innocent,
The troubled stream is still impure,
With vertue flies away content.

And though opinions often erre,

Wee'le court the modest smile of fame,
For sinne's blacke danger circles her,
Who hath infection in her name.
Thus when to one darke silent roome,
Death shall our loving coffins thrust:
Fame will build columnes on our tombe,
And adde a perfume to our dust.

Lucullus' surfets, were but types of this, And whatsoever riot mentioned is

In story, did but the dull zany play,

To this proud night, which rather weel'e term day,
For th' artificial lights so thicke were set,
That the bright Sun seem d this to counterfeit.
But seven (whom whether we should sages call.
Or deadly sinnes, I'le not dispute) were all
Invited to this pompe. And yet I dare
Pawne my lov'd Muse, th' Hungarian did prepare
Not halfe that quantity of victuall when
He layd his happy siege to Nortlinghen.
The mist of the perfumes was breath'd so thicke
That linx himself, though his sight fam'd so
quicke,

Had there scarce spyed one sober: For the wealth
Of the Canaries was exhaust, the health
Of his good majestye to celebrate,

Who'le judge them loyal subject without that:
Yet they, who some fond priviledge to maintaine,
Would have rebeld, their best freehold, their

braine

Surrender'd there: and five fifteenes did pay To drink his happy life and raigne. O day It was thy piety to flye; th' hadst becne Found accessory else to this fond sinr.s. But I forget to speake each stratagem By which the dishes enter'd, and in them Each luscious miracle, as if more bookes Had written beene o'th' mystery of cookes Than the philos'pher's stone, here we did see All wonders in the kitchin alchimy: But Ile not leave you there, before you part You shall have something of another art. A banquet raining down so fast, the good Old patriarch would have thought a generall flood. Heaven open'd and from thence a mighty showre Of amber comfits it sweete selfe did powre Vpon our heads, and suckets from our eye Like thickend clouds did steale away the sky, That it was question'd whether Heaven were Black-fryers, and each starre a confectioner; But I too long detaine you at a feast You hap❜ly surfet of; now every guest

Is reeld downe to his coach; I licence crave. ~. Sir, but to kisse your hands, and take my leave.

SIR,

TO MY NOBLEST FRIEND, SIR I. P. KNIGHT.

THOUGH my deare Talbot's fate exact a sad
And heavy brow: my verse shall not be clad
For him this houre in mourning: I will write
To you the glory of a pompous night,
Which none (except sobriety) who wit
Or cloathes could boast, but freely did admit.
I (who still sinne for company) was there
And tasted of the glorious supper, where
Meate was the least of wonder. Though the nest
O'th' Phoenix rifled seemd t' amaze the feast,
And th' ocean left so poore that it alone

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
ARCHIBALD EARLE OF AR.

IF your example be obey'd

The serious few will live i'th' silent shade:
And not indauger by the wind

Or sunshine, the complexion of their mind:
Whose beauty weares so cleare a skin
That it decayes with the least taint of sin.
Vice growes by custome, nor dare we
Reject it as a slave, where it breaths free,
And is no priviledge deny'd;

Nor if advanc'd to higher place envyed.

Wherefore your lordship in your selfe (Not lancht farre in the maine, nor nigh the shelfe Of humbler fortune) lives at ease, [seas. Safe from the rocks o'th' shore, and stormes o'th'. Your soule's a well built city, where There's such munition, that no war breeds feare: No rebels wilde destractions move;

VOL. VI.

H h

And therefore you defiance bid To open enmity, or mischiefe hid

In fawning hate and supple pride,
Who are on every corner fortifide.

Your youth not rudely led by rage
Of blool, is now the story of your age,
Which without boast you may averre
'Fore blackest danger, glory did prefer:
Glory not purchast by the breath
Of sycophants, but by encountring death.
Yet wildnesse nor the feare of lawes
Did make you fight, but justice of the cause.
For but mad prodigals they are

Of fortitude, who for it selfe love warre.

When well made peace had clos'd the eyes
Of discord, sloath did not your youth surprize.
Your life as well as powre, did awe

The bad, and to the good was the best law:
When most men vertue did pursue

In hope by it to grow in fame like you.
Nor when you did to court repaire,

Did you your manners alter with the ayre.
You did your modesty retaine

Your faithfull dealing, the same tongue and braine.
Nor did all the soft flattery there
Inchant you so, but still you truth could heare.
And though your roofes were richly guilt,
The basis was on no ward's ruine built.
Nor were your vassals made a prey,
And fore't to curse the coronation day.
And though no bravery was knowne

To out-shine yours, you onely spent your owne.
For 'twas the indulgence of Fate,

To give y' a moderate minde, and bounteous state: But I, my lord, who have no friend

Of fortune, must begin where you doe end.
'Tis dang'rous to approach the fire

Of action; nor is't safe, farre to retire,
Yet better lost i'th' multitude

Of private men, than on the state t' intrude,
And hazard for a doubtfull smile,

My stocke of fame, and inward peace to spoile.
I'le therefore nigh some murm'ring brooke
That wantons through my meddowes, with a booke,
With my Castara, or some friend,
My youth not guilty of ambition spend.
To my owne shade (if fate perinit)
I'le whisper some soft musique of my wit.
And flatter so my selfe, l'le see

By that, strange motion steale into the tree :
But still my first and chiefest care
Shall be t' appease offended Heaven with prayer:
And in such mold my thoughts to cast,
That each day shall be spent as 'twere my last.
How ere it's sweete lust to obey,

Vertue thought rugged, is the safest way.

Of thy abode on Earth, yet every houre
Of thy brave youth by vertue's wondrous powre
Was lengthen'd to a yeare. Fach well-spent day
Keepes young the body, but the soule makes gray.
Such miracles workes goodnesse: and behind
Th'ast left to us such stories of thy minde
Fit for example; that when them we read,
We envy Earth the treasure of the dead.
Why doe the sinfull riot and survive
The feavers of their surfets? Why alive'
Is yet disorder'd greatnesse, and all they
Who the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey?
Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the night
With cheats and imprecations? Why is light
Looked on by those whose breath may poyson it:
Who sold the vigour of their strength and wit
To buy diseases: and thou, who faire truth
And vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth?

But I'le not question fate. Heaven doth conveigh
Those first from the darke prison of their clay
Who are most fit for Heaven. Thou in warre
Hadst ta'ne degrees, those dangers felt, which are
The props on which peace safely doth subsist
And through the cannons blew and horrid mist
Hadst brought her light: And now wert so compleat
That naught but death did want to make thee
great.

Thy death was timely then bright soule to the And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not. 'Twas we Who dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increase Of reall glory both in warre and peace, We all did share: and thou away we feare Didst with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare. Each then be his owne mourner. Wee'le to thes Write hymnes, upon the world an elegie.

TO CASTARA,

WHY should we feare to melt away in death;
May we but dye together. When beneath
In a coole vault we sleepe, the world will prove
There, when o'th' wedding eve some beautious maid,
Religious, and call it the shrine of love.
Suspitious of the faith of man, hath paid
The tribute of her vowes: o'th' sudden shee
Two violets sprouting from the tombe will see:
And cry out, "Ye sweet emblems of their zeale
Who live below, sprang ye up to reveale
The story of our future joyes, how we
The faithfull patterns of their love shall be;

If not; hang downe your heads opprest with dew,
And I will weepe and wither hence with you.”

AN ELEGY UPON THE HONOURABLE
HENRY CAMBELL,

SONNE TO THE EARLE OF AR.

Ir's false arrithmaticke to say thy breath
Expir'd to soone, or irreligions death
Prophan'd thy holy youth. For if thy yeares
Be number'd by thy vertues or our teares,
Thou didst the old Methusalem out-live.
Though time but twenty years' account can give

TO CASTARA,

OF WHAT WE WERE BEFORE OUR CREATION.

WHEN Pelion wondring saw, that raine which fell
But now from angry Heaven, to heavenward swell?
When th' Indian ocean did the wanton play,
Mingling its billowes with the Balticke sea:
And the whole earth was water: O where then
Were we Castara? In the fate of men
Lost underneath the waves? Or to beguile
Heaven's justice, lurkt we in Noah's floating isle 2.
We had no being then. This fleshly frame
Wed to a soule, long after, hither came

A stranger to it selfe. Those moneths that were
But the last age, no newes of us did heare.
What pompe is then in us? Who th' other day
Were nothing; and in triumph now,
but clay.

TO THE MOMENT LAST PAST.

O WHITHER dost thou flye? cannot my vow.
Intreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but now,
And thou art gone? like ships which plough the sea,
And leave no print for man to tracke their way.
O unseene wealth! who thee did husband, can
Out-vie the jewels of the ocean,

The mines of th' earth! One sigh well spent in thee
Had beene a purchase for eternity!

We will not loose thee then. Castara, where
Shall we finde out his hidden sepulcher;
And wee'le revive him. Not the cruell stealth
Of fate shall rob us, of so great a wealth;
Vndone in thrift! while we besought his stay,
Ten of his fellow moments fled away.

Within, and all he saw was but the shrine.
But 1 here pay my vowes to the devine
Pure essence there inclos'd, which if it were
Not hid in a faire cloud, but might appeare
In its full lustre, would make Nature live
In a state equall to her primitive.

But sweetly that's obscur'd. Yet though our eye
Cannot the splendour of your soule descry
In true perfection, by a glimmering light,
Your language ycelds us, we can guesse how bright
Eclipse, or else our selves for being blinde.
The Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkind
How hastily doth Nature build up man
To leave him so imperfect? For he can
See nought beyond his sence; she doth controule
So farre his sight he ne're discern'd a soule.
For had yours beene the object of his eye;
It had turn'd wonder to idolatry.

THE HARMONY OF LOVE. AMPHION, O thou holy shade!

Bring Orpheus up with thee:
That wonder may you both invade,
Hearing love's harmony.

You who are soule, not rudely made
Vp, with materiall eares,

And fit to reach the musique of these spheares.
Harke! when Castara's orbs doe move

By my first moving eyes,

How great the symphony of love,
But 'tis the destinies

Will not so farre my prayer approve,

To bring you hither, here

Lest you meete heaven, for Elizium there.

'Tis no dull sublunary flame

Burnes in her heart and mine.
But some thing more, than hath a name.
So subtle and divine,

We know not why, nor how it came.

Which shall shine bright, till she And the whole world of love, expire with me.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE COUNTESSE OF C.

MADAM,
SHOULD the cold Muscovit, whose furre and stove
Can scarse prepare him heate enough for love,
But view the wonder of your presence, he
Would scorne his winter's sharpest injury:
And trace the naked groves, till he found bayse
To write the beautious triumphs of your prayse,
As a dull poet even he would say,

Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them day
Till that bright minute; that he now admires
No more why the coy Spring so soone retires
From their unhappy clyme; it doth pursue
The Sun, and he derives his light from you.
Hec'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick sea
Is set at freedome, while the yce away
Doth melt at your approach; how by so faire
Harmonious beauty, their rude manners are
Reduc't to order; how to them you bring
The wealthiest mines below, above the spring.
Thus would his wonder speake. For he would want
Religion to beleeve, there were a saint

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND

SIR ED. P. KNIGHT.

You'd leave the silence in which safe we are,
To listen to the noyse of warre;

And walke those rugged paths, the factious tread,
Who by the number of the dead

Reckon their glories and thinke greatnesse stood
Vnsafe, till it was built on blood.
Secure i'th' wall our seas and ships provide

(Abhorring war's so barb'rous pride,

And honour bought with slaughter) in content
Let's breath, though humble, innocent.
Folly and madnesse! Since 'tis ods we ne're
See the fresh youth of the next yeare.
Perhaps not the chast morne, her selfe disclose
Againe, 'out-blush th' æmulous rose,
Why doth ambition so the mind distresse
To make us scorne what we possesse?
And looke so farre before us? Since all we
Can hope, is varied misery?

Goe find some whispering shade neare Arne or Poe,
And gently 'mong their violets throw

Your weary'd limbs, and see if all those faire Enchantments can charme griefe or care? Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when you The ruin'd capitoll shall view

Goe travaile

[where

And statues, a disorder'd heape; you can
Not cure yet the disease of man,
And banish your owne thoughts.
Another Sun and starres appeare,
And land not toucht by any covetous fleet,
And yet even there your selfe youle meete.
Stay here then, and while curious exiles find
New toyes for a fantastique mind;
Enjoy at home what's reall: here the Spring
By her aeriall quires doth sing
As sweetly to you as if you were laid

Vnder the learn'd Thessalian shade.
Direct your eye-sight inward, and you'le find
A thousand regions in your mind

Yet undiscover'd. Travell them, and be
Expert in home cosmographie.

Be curious in pursuite of eyes
To procreate new loves with thine;
Satiety makes sence despise
What superstition thought divine.
Quicke fancy, how.it mockes delight?
As we conceive, things are not such,
The glow-worme is as warme as bright,
Till the deceitfull flame we touch.

When I have sold my heart to lust
And bought repentance with a kisse
find the malice of my dust,

That told me Hell contain'd a blisse.

The rose yeelds ber sweete blandishment
Lost in the fold of lovers' wreathes,
The violet enchants the sent
When earely in the spring she breaths.

TO CASTARA.

GIVE me a heart where no impure
Disorder'd passions rage,

Which jealousie doth not obscure,
Nor vanity t' expence ingage,

Nor wooed to madnesse by queint oathes,
Or the fine rhetoricke of cloathes,
Which not the softnesse of the age
To vice or folly doth decline;

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

Take thou a heart where no new looke
Provokes new appetite:

With no fresh charme of beauty tooke,
Or wanton stratagem of wit;
Not idly wandring here and there,
Led by an am'rous eye or earc,
Aiming each beautious marke to hit ;
Which vertue doth to one confine:

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

And now my heart is lodg'd with thee,

Observe but how it still

Doth listen how thine doth with me;
And guard it well, for else it will
Runne hither backe; not to be where

I am, but 'cause thy heart is here.
But without discipline, or skill.
Our hearts shall freely 'tweene us move;
Should thou or I want hearts, wee'd breath by

TO CASTARA.

# OF TRUE DELIGHT.

WHY doth the eare so tempt the voyce,
That cunningly divides the ayre?
Why doth the pallate buy the choyce
Delights o'th' sea, to enrich her fare?

As soone as I my eare obey,
The eccho's lost even with the breath.
And when the sewer takes away

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

[love.