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Cautious, she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant ;
Not speaks loud to boast her wit,
In her silence eloquent.

Of herself survey she takes,
But 'tweene men no difference makes.

She obeyes with speedy will
Here grave parents' wise commands;
And so innocent, that ill
She nor acts nor understands.

Women's feet runne still astray,
If once to ill they know the way.

She sailes by that rocke, the court,
Where oft honour splits her mast :
And retir'dnesse thinks the port
Where her fame may anchor cast.

Vertue safely cannot sit
Where vice is enthron'd for wit.

She holds that daye's pleasure best
Where sinne waits not on delight;
Without maske, or ball, or feast,
Sweetly spends a winter's night.

O’re that darknesse whence is thrust
Prayer and sleepe oft governs lust.

She her throne makes reason climbe,
While wild passions captive lie;
And each article of time
Her pure thoughts to Heaven flie:

All her vowes religious be,
And her love she vowes to me.


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 o' th' wedding eve some beauteous maid,
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.”


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 wand'ring here and there,
Led by an am'rous eye and eare.
Aiming each beauteous marke to hit ;
Which vertue doth to one confine :
Take thou that heart, Castara, for 'tis mine.


Were we by Fate throwne downe below our feare,
Could we be poore? Or question Nature's care
In our provision? She wħo doth afford
A feathered 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 man's duller sence,
Wh' are highest, should be so in innocence :
She who in damask 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 ?


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 Love's 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 than the swan's fam'd downe.

As exorcists wild spirits mildly lay,
May sleepe thy fever calmely chase away.



Castara, whisper in some dead man's 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 trepidation 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 i'th' grace
Love they to wanton of a brighter face,
For th' are above time's battery, and the light
Of beauty, age's cloud will soone be night.

If among these content, he thus doth prove,
Hath no abode, where dwells it but in love?




I saw Castara pray, and from the skie
A winged legion of bright angels flie
To catch her vowes, for feare her virgin prayer
Might chance to mingle with impurer aire.
To vulgar eyes, the sacred truth I write
May seeme a fancie. But the eagle's sight
Of saints, and poets, miracles oft view,
Which to dull heretiks appeare untrue.

Faire zeale begets such wonders.' O divine
And purest beauty, let me thee enshrine
In my devoted soule, and from thy praise,
T'enrich my garland, pluck religious bayes.

Shine thou the starre by which my thoughts shall move,
Best subject of my pen, queene




Fly on thy swiftest wing, ambitious Fame,
And speake to the cold North Castara's name:
Which every breath will, like the East wind, bring
The temp’rate warmth and musicke of the spring.
Then, from the articke to th' antarticke pole,
Haste nimbly, and inspire a gentler soule,
By naming her, i' th’ torrid South; that he
May milde as Zephyrus' coole whispers be.
Nor let the West, where Heaven already joynes
The vastest empire, and the wealthiest mines,
Nor th’ East, in pleasures wanton, her condemne,
For not distributing her gifts on them.

For she with want would have her bounty meet,
Love's noble charity is so discreete.

Noe monument of me remaine,

My mem’orie rust
In the same marble with my dust,
Ere I the spreading laurell gaine
By writing wanton or prophane.
Ye glorious wonders of the skies,

Shine still, bright starres,
Th’ Almightie's mystick characters !
Ile not your beautious lights surprize,
T' illuminate a woman's eyes.
Nor, to perfume her veines, will I

In each one set
The purple of the violet :
The untoucht flowre may grow and dye
Safe from my fancie's injurie.
Open my lippes, great God! and then

Ile soare above
The humble flight of carnall love.
Vpward to thee Ile force my pen,
And trace no path of vulgar men.

For what can our unbounded soules

Worthy to be Their object finde, excepting thee? Where can I fixe ? since time controules Our pride, whose motion all things roules. Should I my selfe ingratiate

T'a prince's smile,
How soone may death my hopes beguile !
And should I farme the proudest state,
I'me tennant to uncertaine fate.
If I court gold, will it not rust ?

And if my love
Toward a female beauty move,
How will that surfet of our lust
Distast us, when resolv'd to dust!
But thou, æternall banquet! where

For ever we
May feede without satietie !
Who harmonie art to the eare;
Who art, while all things else appeare!
While up to thee I shoote my flame,

Thou dost dispence
A holy death, that murders sence,
And makes me scorne all pompes that ayme
At other triumphes than thy name.
It crownes me with a victory

So heavenly, all
That's earth from me away doth fall.
And I, from my corruption free,
Grow in my vowes even part of thee.


When I survay the bright

Coelestiall spheare :
So rich with jewels hung, that night
Doth like an Ethiop bride appeare ;
My soule her wings doth spread,

And heaven-ward flies,
The Almighty's mysteries to read
In the large volumes of the skies.

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