University of Virginia Library

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.