By those chaste lamps which yeeld a silent light, To the cold Urnes of Virgins; By that night, Which guilty of no crime, doth onely heare The Vowes of recluse Nuns, and th' An'thrits prayer; And by thy chaster selfe; My fervent zeale Like mountaine yee, which the North winds congeale, To purest Christall, feeles no wanton fire. But as the humble Pilgrim, (whose desire Blest in Christs cottage, view by Angels hands, Transported from sad Bethlem,) wondring stands At the great miracle: So I at thee, Whose beauty is the shrine of chastity. Thus my bright Muse in a new orbe shall move, And even teach Religion how to love. _To_ CASTARA, _Of his being in Love_. Where am I? not in Heaven: for oh I feele The stone of _Sisiphus_, _Ixions_ wheele; And all those tortures, Poets (by their wine Made judges) laid on _Tantalus_, are mine. Not yet am I in hell; for still I stand, Though giddy in my passion, on firme land, And still behold the seasons of the yeare, Springs in my hope, and Winters in my feare. And sure I'me 'bove the earth: For th' highest star Shoots beames, but dim to what _Castara's_ are, And in her sight and favour I even shine In a bright orbe beyond the Christalline. If then _Castara_ I in Heaven nor move, Nor Earth, nor Hell; where am I but in Love? _To my honoured Friend_, Mr. E. P. Not still ith' shine of Kings. Thou dost retire Sometime to th' Holy shade, where the chaste quire Of Muses doth the stubborne Panther awe, And give the wildernesse of his nature law. The wind his chariot stops: Th' attentive rocke The rigor doth of its creation mocke, And gently melts away: _Argus_ to heare The musicke, turnes each eye into an eare. To welcome thee, _Endymion_, glorious they Triumph to force these creatures disobey What nature hath enacted. But no charme The Muses have these monsters can disarme Of their innated rage: No spell can tame The North-winds fury, but _Castara's_ name. Climbe yonder forked hill, and see if there Ith' barke of every Daphne, not appeare _Castara_ written; And so markt by me, How great a Prophet growes each Virgin tree? Lie downe, and listen what the sacred spring In her harmonious murmures, strives to sing To th' neighb'ring banke, ere her loose waters erre Through common channels; sings she not of her? Behold yond' violet, which such honour gaines, That growing but to emulate her veines, It's azur'd like the skie: when she doth bow T' invoke _Castara_, heav'n perfumes her vow. The trees the water, and the flowers adore The Deity of her sex, and through each pore Breath forth her glories. But unquiet love [5]To make thy passions so uncourtly prove, As if all eares should heare her praise alone. Now listen thou; _Endymion_ sings his owne.