University of Virginia Library

2. CASTARA

The Second part.

To CASTARA,

Now possest of her in marriage.

This day is ours. The marriage Angell now
Sees th' Altar in the odour of our vow,
Yeeld a more precious breath, then that which moves
The whispring leaves in the Panchayan groves.
View how his temples shine, on which he weares
A wreath of pearle, made of those precious teares
Thou wepst a Virgin, when crosse winds bid blow,
Our hopes disturbing in their quiet flow.
But now Castara smile, No envious night
Dares enterpose it selfe, t' ecclipse the light
Of our cleare joyes. For even the lawes divine
Permit our mutuall loves so to entwine,
That Kings, to ballance true content, shall say;
Would they were great as we, we blest as they.

To CASTARA,

Vpon the mutuall love of their Majesties.

Did you not see, Castara, when the King
Met his lov'd Queene; what sweetnesse she did bring
T' incounter his brave heat; how great a flame
From their brests meeting, on the sudden came?
The Stoike, who all easie passion flies,
Could he but heare the language of their eyes,
As heresies would from his faith remove
The tenets of his sect, and practise love.
The barb'rous nations which supply the earth
With a promiscuous and ignoble birth,
Would by this precedent correct their life,
Each wisely chuse, and chastely love a wife.
Princes example is a law. Then we
If loyall subjects, must true lovers be.

To Zephirus.

Whose whispers soft as those which lovers breath?
Castara and my selfe I here bequeath
To thee calme wind. For heaven such joyes afford
To her and me, that there can be no third.
And you kinde starres, be thriftier of your light:
Her eyes supply your office with more bright
And constant lustre. Angels guardians, like
The nimbler ship boyes shall be joy'd to strike
Or hoist up saile; Nor shall our vessell move
By Card or Compasse, but a heavenly love.
The courtesie of this more prosperous gale
Shall swell our Canvas, and wee'le swiftly saile
To some blest Port, where ship hath never lane
At anchor, whose chaste soile no foot prophane
Hath ever trod; Where nature doth dispence
Her infant wealth, a beautious innocence.
Pompe (even a burthen to it selfe) nor Pride,
(The Magistrate of sinnes) did e're abide
On that so sacred earth. Ambition ne're,
Built for the sport of ruine, fabrickes there.
Thence age and death are exil'd, all offence
And feare expell'd, all noyse and faction thence.
A silence there so melancholly sweet,
That none but whispring Turtles ever meet.
Thus Paradise did our first Parents Wooe,
To harmelesse sweets, at first possest by two.
And o're this second, weele usurpe the throne;
Castara weele obey and rule alone.
For the rich vertue of this soyle I feare,
Would be depraved, should but a third be there.

To CASTARA

In a Trance.

Forsake me not so soone. Castara stay,
And as I breake the prison of my Clay,
Ile fill the Canvas with m' expiring breath,
And with thee saile o're the vast maine of death.
Some Cherubin thus as we passe shall play.
Goe happy twins of love: The courteous Sea
Shall smooth her wrinkled brow: the winds shal sleep
Or onely whisper musicke to the deepe.
Every ungentle rocke shall melt away,
The Syrens sing to please, not to betray.
Th' indulgent skie shall smile: each starry quire
Contend, which shall afford the brighter fire.
While Love the Pilot, steeres his course so even,
Ne're to cast anchor till we reach at Heaven.

To DEATH,

CASTARA being sicke.

Hence prophane grim man, nor dare
To approach so neere my faire.
Marble vaults, and gloomy caves,
Church-yards, Charnell houses, graves,
Where the living loath to be,
Heaven hath design'd to thee.
But if needs 'mongst us thou'lt rage,
Let thy fury feed on age.
Wrinckled browes, and withered thighs,
May supply thy sacrifice.
Yet perhaps as thou flew'st by,
A flamed dart shot from her eye,
Sing'd thy wings with wanton fire,
Whence th' art forc't to hover nigh her.
If Love so mistooke his aime,
Gently welcome in the flame:
They who loath'd thee, when they see
Where thou harbor'st will love thee.
Onely I, such is my fate,
Must thee as a rivall hate,
Court her gently, learne to prove
Nimble in the thefts of love.
Gaze on th' errors of her haire:
Touch her lip; but oh beware,
Lest too ravenous of thy blisse,
Thou shouldst murder with a kisse

To CASTARA

Inviting her to sleepe.

Sleepe my Castara, silence doth invite
Thy eyes to close up day; though envious night
Grieves Fate should her the sight of them debarre,
For she is exil'd, while they open are.
Rest in thy peace secure. With drowsie charmes,
Kinde sleepe bewitcheth thee into her armes;
And finding where Loves chiefest treasure lies,
Is like a theefe stole under thy bright eyes.
Thy innocence rich as the gaudy quilt
Wrought by the Persian hand, thy dreames from guilt
Exempted, heaven with sweete repose doth crowne
Each vertue softer then the Swans fam'd downe.
As exorcists wilde spirits mildly lay,
May sleepe thy fever calmely chase away.

Upon CASTARA'S recoverie.

She is restor'd to life. Vnthrifty Death,
Thy mercy in permitting vitall breath
Backe to Castara, hath enlarg'd us all,
Whom griefe had martyr'd in her funerall.
While others in the ocean of their teares,
Had sinking, wounded the beholders eares,
With exclamations: I without a grone,
Had suddenly congeal'd into a stone:
There stood a statue, till the generall doome
Had ruin'd time and memory with her tombe.
While in my heart, which marble, yet still bled,
Each Lover might this Epitaph have read.
“Her earth lyes here below; her soul's above,
“This wonder speakes her vertue, and my love.

To a Friend,

Inviting him to a meeting upon promise.

May you drinke beare, or that adult'rate wine
Which makes the zeale of Amsterdam divine;
If you make breach of promise. I have now
So rich a Sacke, that even your selfe will bow
T'adore my Genius. Of this wine should Prynne
Drinke but a plenteous glasse, he would beginne
A health to Shakespeares ghost. But you may bring
Some excuse forth, and answer me the King
To day will give you audience, or that on
Affaires of state, you and some serious Don
Are to resolve; or else perhaps you'le sin
So farre, as to leave word y'are not within.
The least of these, will make me onely thinke
Him subtle, who can in his closet drinke
Drunke even alone, and thus made wise create
As dangerous plots as the Low Countrey state,
Projecting for such baits, as shall draw ore
To Holland, all the Herrings from our shore.
But y'are too full of candor: and I know
Will sooner stones at Salis'bury casements throw,
Or buy up for the silenc'd Levits, all
The rich impropriations, then let pall
So pure Canary, and breake such an oath:
Since charity is sinn'd against in both.
Come therefore blest even in the Lollards zeale,
Who canst with conscience safe, 'fore hen and veale
Say grace in Latine; while I faintly sing
A Penitentiall verse in oyle and Ling.
Come then, and bring with you prepar'd for fight,
Vnmixt Canary, Heaven send both prove right!
This I am sure: My sacke will disingage
All humane thoughts, inspire so high a rage,
That Hypocrene shall henceforth Poets lacke,
Since more Enthusiasmes are in my sacke.
Heightned with which, my raptures shall commend,
How good Castara is, how deare my friend.

To CASTARA,

Where true happinesse abides.

Castara whisper in some dead mans eare,
This subtill quære; and hee'le point out where,
By answers negative, true joyes abide.
Hee'le say they flow not on th' uncertaine tide
Of greatnesse, they can no firme basis have,
Vpon the tripidation of a wave.
Nor lurke they in the caverns of the earth,
Whence all the wealthy minerals draw their birth,
To covetous man so fatall. Nor ith' grace
Love they to wanton of a brighter face,
For th' are above Times battery; and the light
Of beauty, ages cloud will soone benight.
If among these Content, he thus doth prove,
Hath no abode; where dwels it but in Love?

To CASTARA.

Forsake with me the earth, my faire,
And travell nimbly through the aire,
Till we have reacht th' admiring skies;
Then lend sight to those heavenly eyes
Which blind themselves, make creatures see.
And taking view of all, when we
Shall finde a pure and glorious spheare;
Wee'le fix like starres for ever there.
Nor will we still each other view,
Wee'le gaze on lesser starres then you;
See how by their weake influence they,
The strongest of mens actions sway.
In an inferiour orbe below,
Wee'le see Calisto loosely throw
Her haire abroad: as she did weare,
The self-same beauty in a Beare,
As when she a cold Virgin stood,
And yet inflam'd Ioves lustfull blood.
Then look on Lede, whose faire beames
By their reflection guild those streames,
Where first unhappy she began
To play the wanton with a Swan.
If each of these loose beauties are
Transform'd to a more beauteous starre
By the adult'rous lust of Iove;
Why should not we, by purer love?

To CASTARA,

Vpon the death of a Lady.

Castara weepe not, though her tombe appeare,
Sometime thy griefe to answer with a teare:
The marble will but wanton with thy woe.
Death is the Sea, and we like Rivers flow
To lose our selves in the insatiate Maine,
Whence Rivers may, we ne're returne againe.
Nor grieve this Christall streame so soone did fall
Into the Ocean; since shee perfum'd all
The banks she past, so that each neighbour field
Did sweete flowers cherisht by her watring, yeeld.
Which now adorne her Hearse. The violet there
On her pale cheeke doth the sad livery weare,
Which heavens compassion gave her; And since she
Cause cloath'd in purple can no mourner be,
As incense to the tombe she gives her breath,
And fading, on her Lady waits in death.
Such office the Aegyptian handmaids did
Great Cleopatra, when she dying chid
The Asps slow venome, trembling she should be
By Fate rob'd even of that blacke victory.
The flowers instruct our sorrowes. Come then all
Ye beauties, to true beauties funerall,
And with her to increase deaths pompe, decay.
Since the supporting fabricke of your clay
Is falne, how can ye stand? How can the night
Shew stars, when Fate puts out the dayes great light?
But 'mong the faire, if there live any yet,
She's but the fairer Digbies counterfeit.
Come you who speake your titles. Reade in this
Pale booke, how vaine a boast your greatnesse is.
What's honour but a hatchment? what is here
Of Percy left, and Stanly, names most deare
To vertue? but a crescent turn'd to th' wane,
An Eagle groaning o're an infant slaine?
Or what availes her, that she once was led,
A glorious bride to valiant Digbies bed,
Since death hath them divorc'd? If then alive
There are, who these sad obsequies survive
And vaunt a proud descent, they onely be
Loud heralds to set forth her pedigree.
Come all who glory in your wealth, and view
The embleme of your frailty. How untrue
(Though flattering like friends) your treasures are,
Her Fate hath taught: who, when what ever rare
The either Indies boast, lay richly spread
For her to weare, lay on her pillow dead.
Come likewise my Castara and behold,
What blessings ancient prophesie foretold,
Bestow'd on her in death. She past away
So sweetely from the world, as if her clay
Laid onely downe to slumber. Then forbeare
To let on her blest ashes fall a teare.
But if th' art too much woman, softly weepe,
Lest griefe disturbe the silence of her sleepe.

To CASTARA,

Being to take a journey.

What's death more than departure; the dead go
Like travelling exiles, compell'd to know
Those regions they heard mention of: Tis th' art
Of sorrowes, sayes, who dye doe but depart.
Then weepe thy funerall teares: which heaven t' adorne
The beauteous tresses of the weeping morne,
Will rob me of: and thus my tombe shall be
As naked, as it had no obsequie.
Know in these lines, sad musicke to thy eare,
My sad Castara, you the sermon here
Which I preach o're my hearse: And dead, I tell
My owne lives story, ring but my owne knell.
But when I shall returne, know 'tis thy breath
In sighes divided, rescues me from death.

To CASTARA,

Weeping.

Castara! O you are too prodigall
Oth' treasure of your teares; which thus let fall
Make no returne: well plac'd calme peace might bring
To the loud wars, each free a captiv'd King.
So the unskilfull Indian those bright jems,
Which might adde majestie to Diadems,
'Mong the waves scatters, as if he would store
The thanklesse Sea, to make our Empire poore:
When heaven darts thunder at the wombe of Time,
Cause with each moment it brings forth a crime,
Or else despairing to roote out abuse,
Would ruine vitious earth; be then profuse.
Light, chas'd rude chaos from the world before,
Thy teares, by hindring it's returne, worke more.

To CASTARA,

Upon a sigh.

I heard a sigh, and something in my eare
Did whisper, what my soule before did feare.
That it was breath'd by thee. May th' easie Spring
Enricht with odours, wanton on the wing
Of th' Easterne wind, may ne're his beauty fade,
If he the treasure of this breath convey'd;
'Twas thine by 'th musicke which th' harmonious breath
Of Swans is like, propheticke in their death:
And th' odour, for as it the nard expires,
Perfuming Phœnix-like his funerall fires.
The winds of Paradice send such a gale,
To make the Lovers vessels calmely saile
To his lov'd Port. This shall, where it inspires,
Increase the chaste, extinguish unchaste fires.

To the Right Honourable the Lady F.

Madam.

You saw our loves, & prais'd the mutuall flame:
In which as incense to your sacred name
Burnes a religious zeale. May we be lost
To one another, and our fire be frost;
When we omit to pay the tribute due
To worth and vertue, and in them to you:
Who are the soule of women. Others be
But beauteous parts oth' female body; she
Who boasts how many nimble Cupids skip
Through her bright face, is but an eye or lip;
The other who in her soft brests can show
Warme Violets growing in a banke of snow,
And vaunts the lovely wonder, is but skin:
Nor is she but a hand, who holds within
The chrystall violl of her wealthy palme,
The precious sweating of the Easterne balme.
And all these if you them together take,
And joyne with art, will but one body make,
To which the soule each vitall motion gives;
You are infus'd into it, and it lives.
But should you up to your blest mansion flie,
How loath'd an object would the carkasse lie?
You are all mind. Castara when she lookes,
On you th' Epitome of all, that bookes
Or e're tradition taught; who gives such praise
Vnto your sex, that now even custome sayes
He hath a female soule, who ere hath writ
Volumes which learning comprehend, and wit.
Castara cries to me; Search out and find
The Mines of wisedome in her learned mind,
And trace her steps to honour; I aspire
Enough to worth, while I her worth admire.

To CASTARA.

Against opinion.

Why should we build, Castara, in the aire
Of fraile opinion? Why admire as faire,
What the weake faith of man gives us for right?
The jugling world cheats but the weaker sight.
What is in greatnesse happy? As free mirth,
As ample pleasures of th' indulgent earth
We joy who on the ground our mansion finde,
As they, who saile like witches in the wind
Of Court applause. What can their powerfull spell
Over inchanted man, more than compell
Him into various formes? Nor serves their charme
Themselves to good, but to worke others harme.
Tyrant Opinion but depose: And we
Will absolute ith' happiest Empire be.

To CASTARA.

Vpon Beautie.

Castara, see that dust, the sportive wind
So wantons with. 'Tis happ'ly all you'le finde
Left of some beauty: and how still it flies,
To trouble, as it did in life, our eyes.
O empty boast of flesh? Though our heires gild
The farre fetch Phrigian marble, which shall build
A burthen to our ashes, yet will death
Betray them to the sport of every breath.
Dost thou, poor relique of our frailty, still
Swell up with glory? Or is it thy skill,
To mocke weake man, whom every wind of praise
Into the aire, doth 'bove his center raise.
If so, mocke on: And tell him that his lust
To beauty's, madnesse. For it courts but dust.

To CASTARA,

Melancholly.

Were but that a sigh a penitentiall breath
That thou art mine: It would blow with it death,
T' inclose me in my marble: Where I'de be
Slave to the tyrant wormes, to set thee free.
What should we envy? Though with larger saile
Some dance upon the Ocean: yet more fraile
And faithlesse is that wave, than where we glide,
Blest in the safety of a private tide.
We still have land in ken. And 'cause our boat
Dares not affront the weather, wee'le ne're float
Farre from the shore. To daring them each cloud
Is big with thunder, every wind speakes loud.
And though wild rockes about the shore appeare
Yet vertue will find roome to anchor there.

A Dialogue betweene ARAPHILL and CASTARA.

Araph.
Castara, you too fondly court
The silken peace with which we cover'd are,
Vnquiet time may for his sport,
Vp from its iron den rowse sleepy warre.

Cast.
Then in the language of the drum,
I will instruct my yet afrighted eare,
All woman shall in me be dumbe;
If I but with my Araphill be there?

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

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

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

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

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

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

To the Right Honourable HENRY Lord M.

My Lord.

My thoughts are not so rugged, nor doth earth
So farre predominate in me, that mirth
Lookes not as lovely as when our delight
First fashion'd wings to adde a nimbler flight
To lazie time; who would, to have survai'd
Our varied pleasures, there have ever staid.
And they were harmelesse. For obedience
If frailty yeelds to the wild lawes of sence;
We shall but with a sugred venome meete;
No pleasure, if not innocent as sweet.
And that's your choyce: who adde the title good
To that of noble. For although the blood
Of Marshall, Stanley, and 'La Pole doth flow
With happy Brandon's in your veines; you owe
Your vertue not to them. Man builds alone
Oth' ground of honour: For desert's our owne.
Be that your ayme. I'le with Castara sit
Ith' shade, from heat of businesse. While my wit
Is neither big with an ambitious ayme,
To build tall Pyramids Ith' court of fame,
For after ages, or to win conceit
Oth' present, and grow in opinion great.
Rich in our selves, we envy not the East,
Her rockes of Diamonds, or her gold the West.
Arabia may be happy in the death
Of her reviving Phœnix; In the breath
Of coole Favonius, famous be the grove
Of Tempe; while we in each others love.
For that let us be fam'd. And when of all
That Nature made us two, the funerall
Leaves but a little dust; (which then as wed,
Even after death, shall sleepe still in one bed.)
The Bride and Bridegroome on the solemne day,
Shall with warm zeale approach our Vrne, to pay
Their vowes, that heaven should blisse so farre their rites,
To shew them the faire paths to our delights.

To a Tombe.

Tyrant o're tyrants, thou who onely dost
Clip the lascivious beauty without lust;
What horror at thy sight shootes through each sence;
How powerfull is thy silent eloquence,
Which never flatters? Thou instruct'st the proud,
That their swolne pompe is but an empty cloud,
Slave to each wind. The faire, those flowers they have
Fresh in their cheeke, are strewd upon a grave.
Thou tell'st the rich, their Idoll is but earth.
The vainely pleas'd, that Syren-like their mirth
Betrayes to mischiefe, and that onely he
Dares welcome death, whose aimes at vertue be.
Which yet more zeale doth to Castara move.
What checks me, when the tombe perswades to love?

To CASTARA.

Vpon thought of Age and Death.

The breath of time shall blast the flowry Spring,
Which so perfumes thy cheeke, and with it bring
So darke a mist, as shall eclipse the light
Of thy faire eyes, in an eternall night.
Some melancholly chamber of the earth,
(For that like Time devoures whom it gave breath)
Thy beauties shall entombe, while all who ere
Lov'd nobly, offer up their sorrowes there.
But I whose griefe no formall limits bound,
Beholding the darke caverne of that ground,
Will there immure my selfe. And thus I shall
Thy mourner be, and my owne funerall.
Else by the weeping magicke of my verse,
Thou hadst reviv'd, to triumph o're thy hearse.

To the Right Honourable, the Lord P.

My Lord.

The reverend man by magicke of his prayer
Hath charm'd so, that I and your daughter are
Contracted into one. The holy lights
Smil'd with a cheerefull lustre on our rites,
And every thing presag'd full happinesse
To mutuall love; if you'le the omen blesse.
Nor grieve, my Lord, 'tis perfected. Before
Afflicted Seas sought refuge on the shore
From the angry Northwind. Ere th' astonisht Spring
Heard in the ayre the feather'd people sing,
Ere time had motion, or the Sunne obtain'd
His province o're the day, this was ordain'd.
Nor thinke in her I courted wealth or blood,
Or more uncertaine hopes; for had I stood
On th' highest ground of fortune, the world knowne
No greatnesse but what waited on my throne;
And she had onely had that face and mind,
I, with my selfe, had th' earth to her resign'd.
In vertue there's an Empire. And so sweete
The rule is when it doth with beauty meete,
As fellow Consull; that of heaven they
Nor earth partake; who would her disobey.
This captiv'd me. And ere I question'd why
I ought to love Castara, through my eye,
This soft obedience stole into my heart.
Then found I love might lend to th' quick-ey'd art
Of Reason yet a purer sight: For he
Though blind, taught her these Indies first to see,
In whose possession I at length am blest.
And with my selfe at quiet, here I rest,
As all things to my powre subdu'd. To me
Ther's nought beyond this. The whole world is she.

His Muse speakes to him.

Thy vowes are heard, and thy Castara's name
Is writ as faire ith' Register of Fame,
As th' ancient beauties which translated are
By Poets up to heaven; each there a starre.
And though Imperiall Tiber boast alone
Ovids Corinna, and to Arn is knowne
But Petrarchs Laura; while our famous Thames
Doth murmur Sydneyes Stella to her streames.
Yet hast thou Severne left, and she can bring
As many quires of Swans, as they to sing
Thy glorious love: Which living shall by thee
The onely Sov'raigne of those waters be.
Dead in loves firmament, no starre shall shine
So nobly faire, so purely chaste as thine.

To Vaine hope.

Thou dreame of madmen, ever changing gale,
Swell with thy wanton breath the gaudy saile
Of glorious fooles. Thou guid'st them who thee court
To rocks, to quick-sands, or some faithlesse port.
Were I not mad, who when secure at ease,
I might ith' Cabbin passe the raging Seas,
Would like a franticke shipboy wildly haste,
To climbe the giddy top of th' unsafe mast?
Ambition never to her hopes did faine
A greatnesse, but I really obtaine
In my Castara. Wer't not fondnesse then
T' embrace the shadowes of true blisse? And when
My Paradise all flowers and fruits doth breed:
To rob a barren garden for a weed?

To CASTARA,

How happy, though in an obscure fortune.

Were we by fate throwne downe below our feare;
Could we be poore? Or question Natures care
In our provision? She who doth afford
A feather'd garment fit for every bird,
And onely voyce enough t' expresse delight.
She who apparels Lillies in their white,
As if in that she'de teach mans duller sence,
Wh' are highest, should be so in innocence.
She who in damaske doth attire the Rose,
(And man t' himselfe a mockery to propose,
'Mong whom the humblest Iudges grow to sit)
She who in purple cloathes the Violet.
If thus she cares for things even voyd of sence;
Shall we suspect in us her providence?

To CASTARA.

What can the freedome of our love enthrall?
Castara were we dispossest of all
The gifts of fortune; richer yet than she
Can make her slaves, wee'd in each other be.
Love in himselfe's a world. If we should have
A mansion but in some forsaken cave;
Wee'd smooth misfortune: and our selves thinke then
Retir'd like Princes from the noise of men,
To breath a while unflatter'd. Each wild beast,
That should the silence of our cell infest,
With clamor, seeking prey; Wee'd fancie weare
Nought but an avaritious Courtier.
Wealth's but opinion. Who thinks other more
Of treasures have, then we, is onely poore.

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

To my worthy Cousin Mr. E. C.

In praise of the City Life, in the long Vacation.

I like the greene plush which your meadows weare,
I praise your pregnant fields, which duely beare
Their wealthy burden to th' industrious Bore.
Nor doe I disallow that who are poore
In minde and fortune, thither should retire:
But hate that he who's warme with holy fire
Of any knowledge, and 'mong us may feast
On Nectar'd wit, should turne himselfe t' a beast,
And graze ith' Country. Why did nature wrong
So much her paines, as to give you a tongue
And fluent language; If converse you hold
With Oxen in the stall, and sheepe ith' fold?
But now it's long Vacation you will say
The towne is empty, and who ever may
To th' pleasure of his Country home repaire,
Flyes from th' infection of our London aire.
In this your errour. Now's the time alone
To live here; when the City Dame is gone,
T' her house at Brandford; for beyond that she
Imagines there's no land, but Barbary,
Where lies her husbands Factor. When from hence
Rid is the Countrey Iustice whose non-sence
Corrupted had the language of the Inne,
Where he and his horse litter'd: We beginne
To live in silence, when the noyse oth' Bench
Not deafens Westminster, nor corrupt French
Walkes Fleet-street in her gowne. Ruffes of the Barre,
By the Vacations powre translated are,
To Cut-worke bands. And who were busie here,
Are gone to sow sedition in the shire.
The ayre by this is purg'd, and the Termes strife,
Thus fled the City: we the civill life
Lead happily. When in the gentle way,
Of noble mirth, I have the long liv'd day,
Contracted to a moment: I retire
To my Castara, and meet such a fire
Of mutuall love: that if the City were
Infected, that would purifie the ayre.

Loves Aniversarie

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 loves decree,
'Twas such at first, it ne're could greater be.
But tell me (glorious Lampe) in thy survey,
Of things below thee, what did not decay
By age to weakenesse? I since that have seene
The Rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow greene
And wither, and the beauty of the field
With Winter wrinkled. Even thy selfe dost yeeld
Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher.
But vertuous love is one sweet endlesse fire.

Against them who lay unchastity to the sex of Women.

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

My Lord,

The Laurell doth your reverend temples wreath
As aptly now, as when your youth did breath
Those tragicke raptures which your name shall save
From the blacke edict of a tyrant grave.
Nor shall your Day ere set, till the Sunne shall
From the blind heavens like a cynder fall;
And all the elements intend their strife,
To ruine what they fram'd; Then your fames life,
When desp'rate Time lies gasping, shall expire
Attended by the world ith' generall fire.
Fame lengthens thus her selfe. And I do tread
Your steps to glory, search among the dead,
Where Vertue lies obscur'd; that as I give
Life to her tombe, I spight of time may live.
Now I resolve in triumph of my verse,
To bring great Talbot from that forren hearse,
Which yet doth to her fright his dust enclose:
Then to sing Herbert who so glorious rose,
With the fourth Edward, that his faith doth shine
Yet in the faith of noblest Pembrookes line.
Sometimes my swelling spirits I prepare
To speake the mighty Percy, neerest heire,
In merits as in blood, to CHARLES the great:
Then Darbies worth and greatnesse to repeat:
Or Morleyes honour, or Mounteagles fame,
Whose valour lives eterniz'd in his name.
But while I thinke to sing those of my bloud,
And my Castara's; Loves unruly flood
Breakes in, and beares away what ever stands,
Built by my busie fancy on the sands.

To CASTARA,

Vpon an embrace.

To the Honourable, G. T.

Let not thy grones force Eccho from her cave,
Or interrupt her weeping o're that wave,
Which last Narcissus kist: let no darke grove
Be taught to whisper stories of thy love.
What though the wind be turn'd? Canst thou not saile
By vertue of a cleane contrary gale,
Into some other Port? Where thou wilt find,
It was thy better Genius chang'd the wind,
To steere thee to some Iland in the West,
For wealth and pleasure, that transcends thy East.
Though Astrodora, like a sullen starre
Eclipse her selfe: Ith' sky of beauty are
Ten thousand other fires, some bright as she.
And who with milder beames, may shine on thee.
Nor yet doth this Eclipse beare a portent,
That should affright the world: The firmament
Enjoyes the light it did, a Sunne as cleare,
And the young Spring doth like a Bride appeare,
As fairely wed to the Thessalian grove
As e're it was, though she and you not love.
And we two, who like two bright stars have shin'd
Ith' heaven of friendship, are as firmely joyn'd
As bloud and love first fram'd us. And to be
Lov'd, and thought worthy to be lov'd by thee,
Is to be glorious. Since fame cannot lend
An honour, equals that of Talbots friend.
Nor envie me that my Castara's flame
Yeelds me a constant warmth: Though first I came
To marriage happy Ilands: Seas to thee
Will yeeld as smooth a way, and winds as free.
Which shall conduct thee (if hope may divine);
To this delicious port: and make love thine.

To CASTARA.

The reward of Innocent Love.

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

Sir,

Though my deare Talbots Fate exact, a sad
And heavy brow; my verse shall not be clad
For him this houre in mourning: I will write
To you the glory of a pompous night,
Which none (except sobriety) who wit
Or cloathes could boast, but freely did admit.
I (who still sinne for company) was there
And tasted of the glorious supper, where
Meate was the least of wonder. Though the nest
Oth' Phœnix rifled seemd t' amaze the feast,
And th' Ocean left so poore that it alone
Could since vant wretched herring and poore Iohn.
Lucullus surfets, were but types of this,
And whatsoever riot mention'd is
In story, did but the dull Zanye play,
To this proud night; which rather wee'le terme day:
For th' artificiall lights so thicke were set,
That the bright Sun seem'd this to counterfeit.
But seven (whom whether we should Sages call
Or deadly sinnes, Ile not dispute) were all
Invited to this pompe. And yet I dare
Pawne my lov'd Muse, th' Hungarian did prepare
Not halfe that quantity of victuall, when
He layd his happy siege to Nortlinghen.
The mist of the perfumes was breath'd so thicke
That Linx himselfe 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 loyall subjects 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 drinke his happy life and raigne. O day
It was thy piety to flye; th' hadst beene
Found accessary else to this fond sinne.
But I forget to speake each stratagem
By which the dishes enter'd, and in them
Each luscious miracle, As if more bookes
Had written beene oth' mystery of Cookes
Then the Philos'phers stone, here we did see
All wonders in the kitchin Alchimy:
But Ile not leave you there, before you part
You shall have something of another art.
A banquet raining downe so fast, the good
Old Patriarch would have thought a generall flood:
Heaven open'd and from thence a mighty showre
Of Amber comfits it sweete selfe did powre
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 reeled downe to his coach; I licence crave
Sir, but to kisse your hands, and take my leave.

To The Right Honourable Archibald Earle of Ar.

If your example be obey'd
The serious few will live ith' silent shade:
And not indanger by the wind
Or Sunshine, the complexion of their mind:
Whose beauty weares so cleare a skin
That it decayes with the least taint of sin.
Vice growes by custome, nor dare we
Reject it as a slave, where it breaths free.
And is no priviledge denyed;
Nor if advanc'd to higher place envyed.
Wherefore your Lordship in your selfe
(Not lancht farre in the maine, nor nigh the shelfe
Of humbler fortune) lives at ease,
Safe from the rocks oth' shore, and stormes oth' Seas.
Your soule's a well built City, where
Theres such munition, that no war breeds feare:
No rebels wilde destractions move;
For you the heads have crusht; Rage, Envy, Love.
And therefore you defiance bid
To open enmity, or mischiefe hid
In fawning hate and supple pride,
Who are on every corner fortifide.
Your youth not rudely led by rage
Of blood, is now the story of your age
Which without boast you may averre
'Fore blackest danger, glory did prefer:
Glory not purchast by the breath
Of Sycophants, but by encountring death.
Yet wildnesse nor the feare of lawes
Did make 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 wards ruine built.
Nor were your vassals made a prey,
And forc't to curse the Coronation day.
And though no bravery was knowne
To out-shine yours, you onely spent your owne.
For 'twas the indulgence of fate,
To give y' a moderate minde, and bounteous state?
But I, my Lord, who have no friend
Of fortune, must begin where you doe end.
'Tis dang'rous to approach the fire
Of action; nor is't safe, farre to retire.
Yet better lost ith' multitude
Of private men, then on the state t' intrude,
And hazard for a doubtfull smile,
My stocke of fame, and inward peace to spoile.
Ile therefore nigh some murm'ring brooke
That wantons through my meddowes, with a booke
With my Castara, or some friend,
My youth not guilty of ambition spend.
To my owne shade (if fate permit)
Ile whisper some soft musique of my wit.
And flatter to my selfe, Ile see
By that, strange motion steale into the tree.
But still my first and chiefest care
Shall be t' appease offended heaven with prayer:
And in such mold my thoughts to cast,
That each day shall be spent as 'twere my last.
How ere it's sweete lust to obey,
Vertue though rugged, is the safest way.

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

Its false Arithmaticke to say thy breath
Expir'd to soone, or irreligious death
Prophan'd thy holy youth. For if thy yeares
Be number'd by thy vertues or our teares,
Thou didst the old Methusalem out-live.
Though Time, but twenty yeares account can give
Of thy abode on earth, yet every houre
Of thy brave youth by vertues wondrous powre
Was lengthen'd to a yeare. Each well-spent day
Keepes young the body, but the soule makes gray
Such miracles workes goodnesse; and behind
Th 'ast left to us such stories of thy minde
Fit for example; that when them we read,
We envy earth the treasure of the dead.
Why doe the sinfull riot and survive
The feavers of their surfets? Why alive
Is yet disorder'd greatnesse, and all they
Who the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey?
Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the night
With cheats and imprecations? Why is light
Looked on by those whose breath may poyson it:
Who sold the vigor of their strength and wit
To buy diseases: and thou, who faire truth
And vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth?
But Ile not question fate. Heaven doth conveigh
Those first from the darke prison of their clay
Who are most fit for heaven. Thou in warre
Hadst tane degrees, those dangers felt, which are
The props on which peace safely doth subsist
And through the Cannons blew and horrid mist
Hadst brought her light: And now wert so compleat
That naught but death did want to make thee great.
Thy death was timely then bright soule to thee.
And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not. 'Twas we
Who dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increase
Of reall glory both in warre and peace,
We all did share; and thou away we feare
Didst with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare.
Each then be his owne mourner. Wee'le to thee
Write hymnes, upon the world an Elegie.

To CASTARA.

Why should we feare to melt away in death;
May we but dye together. When beneath
In a coole vault we sleepe, the world will prove
Religious, and call it the shrine of Love.
There, when oth' wedding eve some beautious maid,
Suspitious of the faith of man, hath paid
The tribute of her vowes; oth' sudden shee
Two violets sprouting from the tombe will see:
And cry out, ye sweet emblems of their zeale
Who live below, sprang ye up to reveale
The story of our future joyes, how we
The faithfull patterns of their love shall be?
If not; hang downe your heads opprest with dew,
And I will weepe and wither hence with you.

To CASTARA,

Of what we were before our creation.

When Pelion wondring saw, that raine which fell
But now from angry Heaven, to Heaven ward swell:
When th' Indian Ocean did the wanton play,
Mingling its billowes with the Balticke sea:
And the whole earth was water: O where then
Were we Castara? In the fate of men
Lost underneath the waves? Or to beguile
Heaven's justice, lurkt we in Noahs floating Isle?
We had no being then. This fleshly frame
Wed to a soule, long after, hither came
A stranger to it selfe. Those moneths that were
But the last age, no 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.

To CASTARA.

Of the knowledge of Love.

Where sleepes the North-wind when the South inspires
Life in the spring, and gathers into quires
The scatter'd Nightingales; whose subtle eares
Heard first th' harmonious language of the Spheares;
Whence hath the stone Magneticke force t' allure
Th' enamourd iron; From a seed impure
Or naturall did first the Mandrake grow;
What powre ith' Ocean makes it ebbe and flow;
What strange materials is the azure skye
Compacted of; of what its brightest eye
The ever flaming Sunne; what people are
In th' unknowne world; what worlds in every star;
Let curious fancies at this secret rove;
Castara what we know, wee'le practise, Love.

To the Right Honourable the Countesse of C.

Madam,

Should the cold Muscovit, whose furre and stove
Can scarse prepare him heate enough for love,
But view the wonder of your presence, he
Would scorne his winters sharpest injury:
And trace the naked groves, till he found bayse
To write the beautious triumphs of your prayse.
As a dull Poet even he would say,
Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them day
Till that bright minute; that he now admires
No more why the coy Spring so soone retires
From their unhappy clyme; It doth pursue
The Sun, and he derives his light from you.
Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick Sea
Is set at freedome, while the yce away
Doth melt at your approach; how by so faire
Harmonious beauty, their rude manners are
Reduc't to order; how to them you bring
The wealthiest mines below, above the Spring.
Thus would his wonder speake. For he would want
Religion to beleeve, there were a Saint
Within, and all he saw was but the shrine.
But I here pay my vowes to the devine
Pure essence there inclos'd, which if it were
Not hid in a faire cloud, but might appeare
In its full lustre, would make Nature live
In a state equall to her primitive.
But sweetly thats obscur'd. Yet though our eye
Cannot the splendor of your soule descry
In true perfection, by a glimmering light,
Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how bright
The Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkind
Eclipse, or else our selves for being blinde.
How hastily doth Nature build up man
To leave him so imperfect? For he can
See nought beyond his sence; she doth controule
So farre his sight he nere discern'd a soule.
For had yours beene the object of his eye;
It had turn'd wonder to Idolatry.

The harmony of Love.

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 ith' wall our Seas and ships provide
(Abhorring wars so barb'rous pride
And honour bought with slaughter) in content
Lets breath though humble, innocent.
Folly and madnesse! Since 'tis ods we nere
See the fresh youth of the next yeare,
Perhaps not the chast morne, her selfe disclose
Againe, t'out-blush th' æmulous rose.
Why doth ambition so the mind distresse
To make us scorne what we possesse?
And looke so farre before us? Since all we
Can hope, is varied misery?
Goe find some whispering shade neare Arne or Poe,
And gently 'mong their violets throw
Your wearyed limbs, and see if all those faire
Enchantments can charme griefe or care?
Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when you
The ruin'd Capitoll shall view
And statues, a disorder'd heape; you can
Not cure yet the disease of man,
And banish your owne thoughts. Goe travaile where
Another Sun and Starres appeare,
And land not toucht by any covetous fleet,
And yet even there your selfe youle meet.
Stay here then, and while curious exiles find
New toyes for a fantastique mind;
Enjoy at home what's reall: here the Spring
By her aeriall quires doth sing
As sweetly to you as if you were laid
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.
This you may doe safe both from rocke and shelfe:
Man's a whole world within himselfe.

To CASTARA.

To CASTARA.

Of true delight.

To my noblest Friend, I. C. Esquire.

Sir,

I hate the Countries durt and manners, yet
I love the silence; I embrace the wit
And courtship, flowing here in a full tide.
But loathe the expence, the vanity and pride.
No place each way is happy. Here I hold
Commerce with some, who to my eare unfold
(After a due oath ministred) the height
And greatnesse of each star shines in the state,
The brightnesse, the eclypse, the influence.
With others I commune, who tell me whence
The torrent doth of forraigne discord flow:
Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,
Soone as they happen; and by rote can tell
Those Germane townes, even puzzle me to spell.
The crosse or prosperous fate of Princes, they
Ascribe to rashnesse, cunning or delay:
And on each action comment, with more skill
Then upon Livy, did old Matchavill.
O busie folly! Why doe I my braine
Perplex with the dull pollicies of Spaine,
Or quicke designes of France? Why not repaire
To the pure innocence oth' Country ayre:
And neighbor thee, deare friend? Who so dost give
Thy thoughts to worth and vertue, that to live
Blest, is to trace thy wayes. There might not we
Arme against passion with Philosophie;
And by the aide of leisure, so controule,
What-ere is earth in us, to grow all soule?
Knowledge doth ignorance ingender when
We study misteries of other men
And forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade
(Thy head upon some flowry pillow laide,
Kind Natures huswifery) contemplate all
His stratagems who labors to inthrall
The world to his great Master; and youle finde
Ambition mocks it selfe, and grasps the wind.
Not conquest makes us great. Blood is to deare
A price for glory: Honour doth appeare
To statesmen like a vision in the night,
And jugler-like workes oth' deluded sight.
Th' unbusied onely wise: For no respect
Indangers them to error; They affect
Truth in her naked beauty, and behold
Man with an equall eye, not bright in gold
Or tall in title; so much him they weigh
As Vertue raiseth him above his clay.
Thus let us value things: And since we find
Time bends us toward death, lets in our mind
Create new youth; and arme against the rude
Assaults of age; that no dull solitude
Oth' country dead our thoughts, nor busie care
Oth' towne make us not thinke, where now we are
And whether we are bound. Time nere forgot
His journey, though his steps we numbred not.

To CASTARA.

What Lovers will say when she and he are dead.

To his Muse.

Here Virgin fix thy pillars, and command
They sacred may to after ages stand
In witnesse of loves triumph. Yet will we
Castara, find new worlds in Poetry,
And conquer them. Not dully following those
Tame lovers, who dare cloth their thoughts in prose.
But we will henceforth more Religious prove,
Concealing the high mysteries of love
From the prophane. Harmonious like the spheares,
Our soules shall move, not reacht by humane eares.
That Musicke to the Angels, this to fame,
I here commit. That when their holy flame,
True lovers to pure beauties would rehearse,
They may invoke the Genius of my verse.

The Funerals of the Honourable, my best friend and Kinsman, GEORGE TALBOT, Esquire.

Elegie, 1.

[Twere malice to thy fame, to weepe alone]

Twere malice to thy fame, to weepe alone:
And not enforce an universall groane
From ruinous man, and make the World complaine:
Yet I'le forbid my griefe to be prophane
In mention of thy prayse; I'le speake but truth
Yet write more honour than ere shin'd in youth.
I can relate thy businesse here on earth,
Thy mystery of life, thy noblest birth
Out-shin'd by nobler vertue: but how farre
Th' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest star,
I cannot speake, nor whether thou art in
Commission with a Throne, or Cherubin.
Passe on triumphant in thy glorious way,
Till thou hast reacht the place assign'd: we may
Without disturbing the harmonious Spheares,
Bathe here below thy memory in our teares.
Ten dayes are past, since a dull wonder seis'd
My active soule: Loud stormes of sighes are rais'd
By empty griefes; they who can utter it,
Doe not vent forth their sorrow, but their wit.
I stood like Niobe without a grone,
Congeal'd into that monumentall stone
That doth lye over thee: I had no roome
For witty griefe, fit onely for thy tombe.
And friendships monument, thus had I stood;
But that the flame I beare thee, warm'd my blood
With a new life. Ile like a funerall fire
But burne a while to thee, and then expire.

Elegie, 2.

[Talbot is dead. Like lightning which no part]

Talbot is dead. Like lightning which no part
Oth' body touches, but first strikes the heart,
This word hath murder'd me. Ther's not in all
The stocke of sorrow, any charme can call
Death sooner up. For musiqu's in the breath
Of thunder, and a sweetenesse even ith' death
That brings with it, if you with this compare
All the loude noyses, which torment the ayre.
They cure (Physitians say) the element
Sicke with dull vapors, and to banishment
Confine infections; but this fatall shreeke,
Without the least redresse, is utter'd like
The last dayes summons, when Earths trophies lye
A scatter'd heape, and time it selfe must dye.
What now hath life to boast of? Can I have
A thought lesse darke than th' horror of the grave
Now thou dost dwell below? Wer't not a fault
Past pardon, to raise fancie 'bove thy vault?
Hayle Sacred house in which his reliques sleepe!
Blest marble give me leave t' approach and weepe,
These vowes to thee! for since great Talbot's gone
Downe to thy silence, I commerce with none
But thy pale people: and in that confute
Mistaking man, that dead men are not mute.
Delicious beauty, lend thy flatter'd eare
Accustom'd to warme whispers, and thou'lt heare
How their cold language tels thee, that thy skin
Is but a beautious shrine, in which black sin
Is Idoliz'd; thy eyes but Spheares where lust
Hath its loose motion; and thy end is dust.
Great Atlas of the state, descend with me,
But hither, and this vault shall furnish thee
With more aviso's, then thy costly spyes,
And show how false are all those mysteries
Thy Sect receives, and though thy pallace swell
With envied pride, 'tis here that thou must dwell.
It will instruct you, Courtier, that your Art
Of outward smoothnesse and a rugged heart
But cheates your selfe, and all those subtill wayes
You tread to greatnesse, is a fatall maze
Where you your selfe shall loose, for though you breath
Vpward to pride, your center is beneath.
And 'twill thy Rhetorick false flesh confound;
Which flatters my fraile thoughts, no time can wound
This unarm'd frame. Here is true eloquence
Will teach my soule to triumph over sence,
Which hath its period in a grave, and there
Showes what are all our pompous surfets here.
Great Orator! deare Talbot! Still, to thee
May I an auditor attentive be:
And piously maintaine the same commerce
We held in life! and if in my rude verse
I to the world may thy sad precepts read;
I will on earth interpret for the dead.

Elegie, 3.

[Let me contemplate thee (faire soule) & though]

Let me contemplate thee (faire soule) & though
I cannot tracke the way, which thou didst goe
In thy cœlestiall journey; and my heart
Expanssion wants, to thinke what now thou art
How bright and wide thy glories; yet I may
Remember thee, as thou wert in thy clay.
Best object to my heart! what vertues be
Inherent even to the least thought of thee!
Death wch toth' vig'rous heate of youth brings feare
In its leane looke; doth like a Prince appeare,
Now glorious to my eye, since it possest
The wealthy empyre of that happie chest
Which harbours thy rich dust; for how can he
Be thought a bank'rout that embraces thee?
Sad midnight whispers with a greedy eare
I catch from lonely graves, in hope to heare
Newes from the dead, nor can pale visions fright
His eye, who since thy death feeles no delight
In mans acquaintance. Mem'ry of thy fate
Doth in me a sublimer soule create.
And now my sorrow followes thee, I tread
The milkie way, and see the snowie head
Of Atlas farre below, while all the high
Swolne buildings seeme but atomes to my eye.
I'me heighten'd by my ruine; and while I
Weepe ore the vault where thy sad ashes lye,
My soule with thine doth hold commerce above;
Where we discerne the stratagems, which Love,
Hate, and ambition, use, to cozen man;
So fraile that every blast of honour can
Swell him above himselfe, each adverse gust
Him and his glories shiver into dust.
How small seemes greatnesse here! How not a span
His empire, who commands the Ocean.
Both that, which boasts so much it's mighty ore,
And th' other, which with pearle, hath pav'd its shore.
Nor can it greater seeme, when this great All
For which men quarrell so, is but a ball
Cast downe into the ayre to sport the starres.
And all our generall ruines, mortall warres,
Depopulated states, caus'd by their sway;
And mans so reverend wisedome but their play.
From thee, deare Talbot, living I did learne
The Arts of life, and by thy light discerne
The truth, which men dispute. But by thee dead
I'me taught, upon the worlds gay pride to tread:
And that way sooner master it, than he
To whom both th' Indies tributary be.

Elegie, 4.

[My name, deare friend, even thy expiring breath]

My name, deare friend, even thy expiring breath
Did call upon: affirming that thy death
Would wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must be
Indeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee.
My Lord, if I with licence of your teares,
(Which your great brother's hearse as dyamonds weares
T' enrich deaths glory) may but speake my owne:
Ile prove it, that no sorrow ere was knowne
Reall as mine. All other mourners keepe
In griefe a method: without forme I weepe.
The sonne (rich in his fathers fate) hath eyes
Wet just as long as are the obsequies.
The widow formally a yeare doth spend
In her so courtly blackes. But for a Friend
We weepe an age, and more than th' Anchorit, have
Our very thoughts confin'd within a Grave.
Chast Love who hadst thy tryumph in my flame
And thou Castara who had hadst a name,
But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verse
Is lost to you, and onely on Talbots herse
Sadly attends. And till times fatall hand
Ruines, what's left of Churches, there shall stand.
There to thy selfe, deare Talbot, Ile repeate
Thy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how great
Thou wert in thy mindes Empire, and how all
Who out-live thee, see but the Funerall
Of glory: and if yet some vertuous be,
They but weake apparitions are of thee.
So setled were thy thoughts, each action so
Discreetely ordered, that nor ebbe nor flow
Was ere perceiv'd in thee: each word mature
And every sceane of life from sinne so pure
That scarce in its whole history, we can
Finde vice enough, to say thou wert but man.
Horror to say thou wert! Curst that we must
Addresse our language to a little dust,
And seeke for Talbot there. Injurious fate,
To lay my lifes ambition desolate.
Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know,
Not how it can give such another blow.

Elegie, 5.

[Chast as the Nuns first vow, as fairely bright]

Chast as the Nuns first vow, as fairely bright
As when by death her Soule shines in full light
Freed from th' eclipse of Earth, each word that came
From thee (deare Talbot) did beget a flame
T' enkindle vertue: which so faire by thee
Became, man, that blind mole, her face did see.
But now to' our eye she's lost, and if she dwell
Yet on the earth; she's coffin'd in the cell
Of some cold Hermit; who so keepes her there,
As if of her the old man jealous were.
Nor ever showes her beauty, but to some
Carthusian, who even by his vow, is dumbe!
So 'mid the yce of the farre Northren sea,
A starre about the Articke Circle, may
Then ours yeeld clearer light; yet that but shall
Serve at the frozen Pilots funerall.
Thou (brightest constellation) to this maine
Which all we sinners traffique on, didst daigne
The bounty of thy fire, which with so cleare
And constant beames did our frayle vessels steere,
That safely we, what storme so ere bore sway,
Past ore the rugged Alpes of th' angry Sea.
But now we sayle at randome. Every rocke
The folly doth of our ambition mocke
And splits our hopes: To every Sirens breath
We listen and even court the face of death,
If painted ore by pleasure: Every wave
Ift hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave.
So ruinous is the defect of thee,
To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to me
Who liv'd one life with thine, drew but one breath,
Possest with th' same mind & thoughts, 'twas death.
And now by fate: I but my selfe survive,
To keepe his mem'ry, and my griefes alive.
Where shall I then begin to weepe? No grove
Silent and darke, but is prophan'd by Love:
With his warme whispers, and faint idle feares,
His busie hopes, loud sighes, and causelesse teares
Each eare is so enchanted; that no breath
Is listned to, which makes report of death.
Ile turne my griefe then inward and deplore
My ruine to my selfe, repeating ore
The story of his vertues; untill I
Not write, but am my selfe his Elegie.

Elegie, 6.

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

Goe stop the swift-wing'd moments in their flight
To their yet unknowne coast, goe hinder night
From its approach on day, and force day rise
From the faire East of some bright beauties eyes:
Else vaunt not the proud miracle of verse.
It hath no powre. For mine from his blacke herse
Redeemes not Talbot, who could as the breath
Of winter, coffin'd lyes; silent as death,
Stealing on th' Anch'rit, who even wants an eare
To breath into his soft expiring prayer.
For had thy life beene by thy vertues spun
Out to a length, thou hadst out-liv'd the Sunne
And clos'd the worlds great eye: or were not all
Our wonders fiction, from thy funerall
Thou hadst received new life, and liv'd to be
The conqueror o're death, inspir'd by me.
But all we Poets glory in, is vaine
And empty triumph: Art cannot regaine
One poore hour lost, nor reskew a small flye
By a fooles finger destinate to dye.
Live then in thy true life (great soule) for set
At liberty by death thou owest no debt
T' exacting Nature: Live, freed from the sport
Of time and fortune in yand' starry court
A glorious Potentate, while we below
But fashion wayes to mitigate our woe.
We follow campes, and to our hopes propose
Th' insulting victor; not remembring those
Dismembred trunkes who gave him victory
By a loath'd fate: We covetous Merchants be
And to our aymes pretend treasure and sway,
Forgetfull of the treasons of the Sea.
The shootings of a wounded conscience
We patiently sustaine to serve our sence
With a short pleasure; So we empire gaine
And rule the fate of businesse, the sad paine
Of action we contemne, and the affright
Which with pale visions still attends our night.
Our joyes false apparitions, but our feares
Are certaine prophecies. And till our eares
Reach that cælestiall musique, which thine now
So cheerefully receive, we must allow
No comfort to our griefes: from which to be
Exempted, is in death to follow thee.

Elegie, 7.

[There is no peace in sinne. Æternall war]

There is no peace in sinne. Æternall war
Doth rage 'mong vices. But all vertues are
Friends 'mong themselves, and choisest accents be
Harsh Eccho's of their heavenly harmonie.
While thou didst live we did that union finde
In the so faire republick of thy mind,
Where discord never swel'd. And as we dare
Affirme those goodly structures, temples are
Where well-tun'd quires strike zeale into the eare:
The musique of thy soule made us say, there
God had his Altars; every breath a spice
And each religious act a sacrifice.
But death hath that demolisht. All our eye
Of thee now sees doth like a Cittie lye
Raz'd by the cannon. Where is then that flame
That added warmth and beauty to thy frame?
Fled heaven-ward to repaire, with its pure fire
The losses of some maim'd Seraphick quire?
Or hovers it beneath, the world t' uphold
From generall ruine, and expell that cold
Dull humor weakens it? If so it be;
My sorrow yet must prayse fates charity.
But thy example (if kinde heaven had daignd
Frailty that favour) had mankind regaind
To his first purity. For that the wit
Of vice, might not except 'gainst th' Ancherit
As too to strickt; thou didst uncloyster'd live:
Teaching the soule by what preservative,
She may from sinnes contagion live secure,
Though all the ayre she suckt in, were impure.
In this darke mist of error with a cleare
Vnspotted light, thy vertue did appeare
T' obrayd corrupted man. How could the rage
Of untam'd lust have scorcht decrepit age;
Had it seene thy chast youth? Who could the wealth
Of time have spent in ryot, or his health
By surfeits forfeited; if he had seene
What temperance had in thy dyet beene?
What glorious foole had vaunted honours bought
By gold or practise, or by rapin brought
From his fore-fathers, had he understood
How Talbot valued not his owne great blood!
Had Politicians seene him scorning more
The unsafe pompe of greatnesse, then the poore
Thatcht roofes of shepheards, where th' unruly wind
(A gentler storme than pride) uncheckt doth find
Still free admittance: their pale labors had
Beene to be good, not to be great and bad.
But he is lost in a blind vault, and we
Must not admire though sinnes now frequent be
And uncontrol'd: Since those faire tables where
The Law was writ by death now broken are,
By death extinguisht is that Star, whose light
Did shine so faithfull: that each ship sayl'd right
Which steer'd by that. Nor marvell then if we,
(That failing) lost in this worlds tempest be.
But to what Orbe so ere thou dost retyre,
Far from our ken: tis blest, while by thy fire
Enlighten'd. And since thou must never here
Be seene againe: may I ore-take thee there.

Elegie, 8.

[Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor all]

Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor all
The cunning Pompe of the Escuriall.
Though there both th' Indies met in each smal room,
Th' are short in treasure of this precious tombe.
Here is th' Epitome of wealth, this chest
Is Natures chief Exchequer, hence the East
When it is purified by th' generall fire
Shall see these now pale ashes sparkle higher
Then all the gems she vants: transcending far
In fragrant lustre the bright morning star.
Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather we
Have by a cataract lost sight, then he
Though dead his glory. So to us blacke night
Brings darkenesse, when the Sun retaines his light.
Thou eclips'd dust! Expecting breake of day
From the thicke mists about thy Tombe, I'le pay
Like the just Larke, the tribute of my verse.
I will invite thee, from thy envious herse
To rise, and 'bout the World thy beames to spread,
That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead.
My zeale deludes me not. What perfumes come
From th' happy vault? In her sweete martyrdome
The nard breathes never so, nor so the rose
When the enamor'd Spring by kissing blowes
Soft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early East
Vying with Paradice, ith' Phœnix nest.
These gentle perfumes usher in the day
Which from the night of his discolour'd clay
Breakes on the sudden: for a Soule so bright
Of force must to her earth contribute light.
But if w'are so far blind, we cannot see
The wonder of this truth; yet let us be
Not infidels: nor like dull Atheists give
Our selves so long to lust, till we beleive
(T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fall
To a loath'd nothing in our Funerall.
The bad mans death is horror. But the just
Keepes something of his glory in his dust.