Transfix me with that flaming dart Ith' eye, or brest, or any part, So thou, _Castara_, spare my heart. The cold Cymerian by that bright Warme wound, ith' darknesse of his night, Might both recover heat, and light. The rugged Scythian gently move, Ith' whispering shadow of some grove, That's consecrate to sportive Love. _December_ see the Primrose grow, The Rivers in soft murmurs flow, And from his head shake off his snow. And crooked age might feele againe Those heates, of which youth did complaine, While fresh blood swels each withered veyne. For the bright lustre of thy eyes, Which but to warme them would suffice, May burne me to a sacrifice. [7]_To the right honourable the Countesse of_ Ar. Wing'd with delight (yet such as still doth beare Chaste vertues stamp) those Children of the yeere The dayes, haste nimbly; and while as they flie, Each of them with their predecessors vie, Which yeelds most pleasure; you to them dispence, What Time lost with his cradle, innocence. So I (if fancie not delude my sight,) See often the pale monarch of the night, _Diana_, 'mong her nimphs. For every quire Of vulgar starres, who lend their weaker fire To conquer the nights chilnesse, with their Queene, In harmelesse revels tread the happy greene. But I who am proscrib'd by tyrant love, Seeke out a silent exile in some grove, Where nought except a solitary Spring, Was ever heard, to which the Nimphs did sing _Narcissus_ obsequies: For onely there Is musique apt to catch an am'rous eare. _Castara!_ oh my heart! How great a flame Did even shoot into me with her name? _Castara_ hath betray'd me to a zeale Which thus distracts my hopes. Flints may conceale In their cold veynes a fire. But I whose heart By Love's dissolv'd, ne're practis'd that cold art. But truce thou warring passion, for I'le now Madam to you addresse this solemne vow. By Vertue and your selfe (best friends) I finde In the interiour province of your minde Such government: That if great men obey Th' example of your order, they will sway Without reproofe. For onely you unite Honour with sweetenesse, vertue with delight. [7] _To the right honourable my very good Lady_, Anne _Countesse of_ Ar. 1634, 1635. _Upon_ CASTARA'S _frowne or smile_. Learned shade of _Tycho Brache_, who to us, The stars propheticke language didst impart, And even in life their mysteries discusse: _Castara_ hath o'rethrowne thy strongest art. When custome struggles from her beaten path, Then accidents must needs uncertaine be. For if _Castara_ smile; though winter hath Lock't up the rivers: Summer's warme in me.