_To seek a saving influence, and loose him?_ _Can Stars protect thee? or can poverty,_ _Which is the light to Heaven, put out his eye?_ _He is my Star, in him all truth I find,_ _All influence, all fate, and when my mind_ _Is furnish'd with his fullness, my poor story_ _Shall out-live all their age, and all their glory,_ _The hand of danger cannot fall amiss,_ _When I know what, and in whose power it is._ _[N]or want, the cause of man, shall make me groan,_ _A Holy Hermit is a mind alone._ _Doth not experience teach us all we can,_ _To work our selves into a glorious man?_ _Love's but an exhalation to best eyes_ _The matter spent, and then the fools fire dies?_ _Were I in love, and could that bright Star bring_ _Increase to Wealth, Honor, and every thing:_ _Were she as perfect good, as we can aim,_ _The first was so, and yet she lost the Game._ _My Mistriss then be knowledge and fair truth;_ _So I enjoy all beauty and all youth,_ _And though to time her Lights, and Laws she lends,_ _She knows no Age, that to corruption bends._ _Friends promises may lead me to believe,_ _But he that [is] his own friend, knows to live._ _Affliction, when I know it is but this,_ _A deep allay, whereby man tougher is_ _To [b]ear the hammer, and the deeper still,_ _We still arise more image of his Will._ _Sickness, an humorous cloud 'twixt us and light_ _And death, at longest but another night._ _Man is his own Star, and that soul that can_ _Be honest, is the only perfect man._ FINIS. THE MASQUE of the Gentlemen OF _GRAYS-INNE_ and the _INNER-TEMPLE_; _Performed before the KING in the_ Banqueting-House _in_ White-Hall, at the Marriage of the Illustrious _Frederick_ and _Elizabeth_, Prince and Princess Palatine of the _Rhine_. Written by _FRANCIS BEAMONT_ Gent. _Enter_ Iris _running_, Mercury _following, and catching hold of her_. _Mercury._ Stay Light-[f]oot _Iris_, for thou striv'st in vain, My wings are nimbler than thy feet. _Iris._ Away, Dissembling _Mercury_, my messages Ask honest haste, not like those wanton ones, Your thundering Father sends. _Mer._ Stay foolish Maid, Or I will take my rise upon a hill, When I perceive thee seated in a cloud, In all the painted glory that thou hast, And never cease to clap my willing wing[s], Till I catch hold o[f] thy discolour'd Bow, And shiver it beyond the angry power Of your [curst] Mistriss to make up again.