While you dare trust the loudest tongue of fame, The zeale you heare your Mistresse to proclaim To th' talking world: I in the silent'st grove, Scarce to my selfe dare whisper that I love. Thee, titles _Brud'nell_, riches thee adorne, And vigorous youth to vice not headlong borne By th' tide of custome: Which I value more Then what blind superstitious fooles adore, Who greatnesse in the chaire of blisse enthrone. Greatnesse we borrow, Vertue is our owne. In thy attempt be prosperous, and when ere Thou shalt prefix the houre; may _Hymen_ weare His brightest robe; where some fam'd Persian shall Worke by the wonder of her needle all The nuptiall joyes; which (if we Poets be True Prophets) bounteous heaven designes for thee. I envie not, but glory in thy fate, While in the narrow limits of my state I bound my hopes. Which if _Castara_ daigne Once to entitle hers; the wealthiest graine My earth, untild shall beare; my trees shall grone Under their fruitfull burthen, and at one And the same season, Nature forth shall bring Riches of Autumne, pleasures of the Spring. But digge, and thou shalt finde a purer Mine Then th' Indians boast: Taste of this generous Vine, And her blood sweeter will than Nectar prove. Such miracles wait on a noble love. But should she scorne my suite, I'le tread that path Which none but some sad Fairy beaten hath. There force wrong'd _Philomel_, hearing my mone, To sigh my greater griefes, forget her owne. _To_ CASTARA, _Inquiring why I loved her_. Why doth the stubborne iron prove So gentle to th' magnetique stone? How know you that the orbs doe move; With musicke too? since heard of none? And I will answer why I love. 'Tis not thy vertues, each a starre Which in thy soules bright spheare doe shine, Shooting their beauties from a farre, To make each gazers heart like thine: Our vertues often Meteors are. 'Tis not thy face, I cannot spie When Poets weepe some Virgins death, That _Cupid_ wantons in her eye, Or perfumes vapour from her breath, And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie.[6] Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne're So vaine as in that to delight: Which ballance it, no weight doth beare, Nor yet is object to the sight, But onely fils the vulgar eare. Nor yet thy fortunes: Since I know They in their motion like the Sea: Ebbe from the good, to the impious flow: And so in flattery betray, That, raising they but overthrow. And yet these attributes might prove Fuell enough t' enflame desire; But there was something from above, Shot without reasons guide, this fire. I know, yet know not, why I love. [6] And there must once thy beauty lie. 1634, 1635. _To_ CASTARA, _Looking upon him_.