[5] To make affection so ill-nurtur'd prove. 1634, 1635. _To_ CASTARA. Doe not their prophane Orgies heare, Who but to wealth no altars reare, The soule's oft poys'ned through the eare. _Castara_ rather seeke to dwell Ith' silence of a private cell. Rich discontent's a glorious hell. Yet _Hindlip_ doth not want extent Of roome (though not magnificent) To give free welcome to content. There shalt thou see the earely Spring, That wealthy stocke of nature bring, Of which the Sybils bookes did sing. From fruitlesse Palmes shall honey flow, And barren Winter Harvest show, While Lilies in his bosome grow, No North-winde shall the corne infest, But the soft spirit of the East, Our sent with perfum'd banquets feast. A Satyre here and there shall trip, In hope to purchase leave to sip Sweete Nectar from a Fairies lip. The Nimphs with quivers shall adorne Their active sides, and rouse the morne With the shrill musicke of their horne. Wakened with which, and viewing thee, Faire _Daphne_ her faire selfe shall free, From the chaste prison of a tree: And with _Narcissus_ (to thy face Who humbly will ascribe all grace) Shall once againe pursue the chase. So they, whose wisdome did discusse Of these as fictions: shall in us Finde, they were more then fabulous. _To_ CASTARA, _Softly singing to her selfe_. Sing forth sweete Cherubin (for we have choice Of reasons in thy beauty and the voyce, To name thee so, and scarce appeare prophane) Sing forth, that while the orbs celestiall straine To eccho thy sweete note, our humane eares May then receive the Musicke of the Spheares. But yet take heede, lest if the Swans of Thames, That adde harmonious pleasure to the streames, Oth' sudden heare thy well-divided breath, Should listen, and in silence welcome death: And ravisht Nightingales, striving too high To reach thee, in the emulation dye. And thus there will be left no bird to sing Farewell to th' Waters, welcome to the Spring. _To a Wanton._ In vaine faire sorceresse, thy eyes speake charmes, In vaine thou mak'st loose circles with thy armes. I'me 'bove thy spels. No magicke him can move, In whom _Castara_ hath inspir'd her love. As she, keepe thou strict cent'nell o're thy eare, Lest it the whispers of soft Courtiers heare; Reade not his raptures, whose invention must Write journey worke, both for his Patrons lust, And his owne plush: let no admirer feast His eye oth' naked banquet of thy brest. If this faire president, nor yet my want Of love, to answer thine, make thee recant Thy sorc'ries; Pity shall to justice turne, And judge thee, witch, in thy owne flames to burne. _To the Honourable my much honoured friend_, R. B. _Esquire_.