In a darke cave which never eye Could by his subtlest ray descry, It doth like a rich minerall lye. Which is she with her flame refine, I'de force it from that obscure Mine, And then it like pure should shine. _A Dialogue betweene_ HOPE _and_ FEARE. FEARE. Checke thy forward thoughts, and know _Hymen_ onely joynes their hands; Who with even paces goe, Shee in gold, he rich in lands. HOPE. But _Castara's_ purer fire, When it meetes a noble flame: Shuns the smoke of such desire, Joynes with love, and burnes the same. FEARE. Yet obedience must prevaile, They who o're her actions sway: Would have her in th' Ocean saile, And contemne thy narrow sea. HOPE. Parents lawes must beare no weight When they happinesse prevent. And our sea is not so streight, But it roome hath for content. FEARE. Thousand hearts as victims stand, At the Altar of her eyes. And will partiall she command, Onely thine for sacrifice? HOPE. Thousand victims must returne; Shee the purest will designe: Choose _Castara_ which shall burne, Choose the purest, that is, mine. _To_ CUPID, _Upon a dimple in_ CASTARA'S _cheeke_. Nimble boy in thy warme flight, What cold tyrant dimm'd thy sight? Hadst thou eyes to see my faire, Thou wouldst sigh thy selfe to ayre: Fearing to create this one, Nature had her selfe undone. But if you when this you heare Fall downe murdered through your eare, Begge of _Jove_ that you may have In her cheeke a dimpled grave. Lilly, Rose, and Violet, Shall the perfum'd Hearse beset While a beauteous sheet of Lawne, O're the wanton corps is drawne: And all lovers use this breath; "Here lies _Cupid_ blest in death." _Upon_ CUPID'S _death and buriall in_ CASTARA'S _cheeke_. _Cupids_ dead. Who would not dye, To be interr'd so neere her eye? Who would feare the sword, to have Such an Alabaster grave? O're which two bright tapers burne, To give light to the beauteous Urne. At the first _Castara_ smil'd, Thinking _Cupid_ her beguil'd, Onely counterfeiting death. But when she perceiv'd his breath Quite expir'd: the mournefull Girle, To entombe the boy in Pearle, Wept so long; till pittious _Jove_, From the ashes of this Love, Made ten thousand _Cupids_ rise, But confin'd them to her eyes: Where they yet, to shew they lacke No due sorrow, still weare blacke. But the blacks so glorious are Which they mourne in, that the faire Quires of starres, look pale and fret, Seeing themselves out shin'd by jet. _To_ Fame.