transcendant above the title) is but a glorious servitude, fooles onely are willing to suffer. She is not ambitious to be prais'd, and yet vallues death beneath infamy. And Ile conclude, (though the next sinod of Ladies condemne this character as an heresie broacht by a Precision) that onely she who hath as great a share in vertue as in beauty, deserves a noble love to serve her, and a free Poesie to speake her._ _Fifty-seven Poems, chiefly on Love and Courtship._ _To_ CASTARA, _A Sacrifice_. Let the chaste Phœnix from the flowry East, Bring the sweete treasure of her perfum'd nest, As incense to this Altar, where the name Of my _Castara's_ grav'd by th' hand of fame. Let purer Virgins, to redeeme the aire From loose infection, bring their zealous prayer, T' assist at this great feast: where they shall see, What rites Love offers up to Chastity. Let all the amorous Youth, whose faire desire Felt never warmth, but from a noble fire, Bring hither their bright flames: which here shall shine As Tapers fixt about _Castara's_ shrine. While I the Priest, my untam'd heart, surprise, And in this Temple mak't her sacrifice. _To_ CASTARA, _Praying_. 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 Eagles sight Of Saints, and Poets, miracles oft view, Which to dull Heretikes 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 of my love. _To Roses in the bosome of_ CASTARA. Yee blushing Virgins happie are In the chaste Nunn'ry of her brests, For hee'd prophane so chaste a faire, Who ere should call them _Cupids_ nests. Transplanted thus how bright yee grow, How rich a perfume doe yee yeeld? In some close garden, Cowslips so Are sweeter then ith' open field. In those white Cloysters live secure From the rude blasts of wanton breath, Each houre more innocent and pure, Till you shall wither into death. Then that which living gave you roome, Your glorious sepulcher shall be. There wants no marble for a tombe, Whose brest hath marble beene to me. _To_ CASTARA, _A Vow_.