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._
We saw and woo'd each others 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 stolen pleasure of one night.
Time's ever ours, while we dispise
The sensuall idoll 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 streame is still impure,
With vertue flies away content.
And though opinion often erre,
Wee'le court the modest smile of fame.
For sinnes 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.
_To my noble 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 seem'd t'amaze the feast,
And th' Ocean left so poore that it alone
Could since vant wretched herring and poore John.
_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 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 thought 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 privilege to mainteine,
Would have rebeld; their best freehold, their braine
Surrender'd there; and five fifteenes did pay
To drink his happy life and reigne. 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 have 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
Upon 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.
_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 breathes 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
There's 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 your fight, but justice of the cause.
For but mad prodigals they are
Of fortitude, who for it selfe love warre.
When well made peace hath clos'd the eyes
Of discord, loath 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 same, 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 own 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_ Arg.
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 news 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.
Undone 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' enamour'd 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[31] 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.
[31] her. 1635.
[32]_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.
[32] _To the Right Honourable, my very good Lady, the Countesse of_ C.
1635.
_The harmony of Love._
_Amphion_, O thou holy shade!
Bring _Orpheus_ up with thee:
That wonder may you both invade,
Hearing Loves harmony.
You who are soule, not rudely made
Up, 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 something more, then 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 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
Unsafe, 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 you'le 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
Under 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 him selfe.
_To_ CASTARA.
Give me a heart where no impure
Disorder'd passions rage,
Which jealousie doth not obscure,
Not vanity t' expence ingage,
Nor wooed to madnesse by quient 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 eare.
Ayming 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 love.
_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 oth' 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, then death.
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
I find the malice of my dust,
That told me hell contain'd a blisse.
The Rose yeelds her sweete blandishment
Lost in the fold of lovers wreathes,
The violet enchants the sent,
When earely in the Spring she breaths.
But winter comes and makes each flowre
Shrinke from the pillow where it growes,
Or an intruding cold hath powre
To scorne the perfume of the Rose.
Our sences like false glasses show
Smooth beauty where browes wrinkled are,
And makes the cosen'd fancy glow.
Chaste vertue's onely true[33] and faire.
[33] chaste. 1635.
_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 _Machavill_.
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 labours 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._
I wonder when w'are dead, what men will say;
Will not poore Orphan Lovers weepe.
The parents of their Loves decay;
And envy death the treasure of our sleepe?
Will not each trembling Virgin bring her feares
To th' holy silence of my Urne?
And chide the Marble with her teares,
Cause she so soone faith's obsequie must mourne.
For had Fate spar'd but _Araphill_ (she'le say)
He had the great example stood,
And forc't unconstant man obey
The law of Loves Religion, not of blood.
And youth by female perjury betraid,
Will to _Castara's_ shrine deplore
His injuries, and death obrayd,
That woman lives more guilty, then before.
For while thy breathing purified the ayre
Thy Sex (hee'le say) did onely move
By the chaste influence of a faire,
Whose vertue shin'd in the bright orbe of love.
Now woman, like a Meteor vapor'd forth
From dunghills, doth amaze our eyes;
Not shining with a reall worth,
But subtile her blacke errors to disguise.
Thus will they talke, _Castara_, while our dust
In one darke vault shall mingled be.
The world will fall a prey to lust,
When Love is dead, which hath one fate with me.
_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.
_FINIS._
A Friend
_Is a man. For the free and open discovery of thoughts to woman can not
passe without an over licentious familiarity, or a justly occasion'd
suspition; and friendship can neither stand with vice or infamie. He
is vertuous, for love begot in sin is a mishapen monster, and seldome
out-lives his birth. He is noble, and inherits the vertues of all his
progenitors; though happily unskilfull to blazon his paternall coate;
So little should nobility serve for story, but when it encourageth to
action. He is so valiant, feare could never be listned to, when she
whisper'd danger; and yet fights not, unlesse religion confirmes the
quarrell lawfull. He submits his actions to the government of vertue,
not to the wilde decrees of popular opinion; and when his conscience
is fully satisfied, he cares not how mistake and ignorance interpret
him. He hath so much fortitude he can forgive an injurie; and when
he hath overthrown his opposer, not insult upon his weakenesse. He
is an absolute governor; no destroyer of his passions, which he
imployes to the noble increase of vertue. He is wise, for who hopes
to reape a harvest from the sands, may expect the perfect offices of
friendship from a foole. He hath by a liberall education beene softned
to civility; for that rugged honesty some rude men posesse, is an
indigested Chaos; which may containe the seedes of goodnesse, but it
wants forme and order._