Pronounce me guilty of a Blacker crime, Then e're in the large Volume writ by Time. The sad Historian reades, if not my Art Dissembles love, to veile an am'rous heart. For when the zealous anger of my friend Checkes my unusuall sadnesse: I pretend To study vertue, which indeede I doe, He must court vertue who aspires to you. Or that some friend is dead and then a teare, A sigh or groane steales from me: for I feare Lest death with love hath strooke my heart, and all These sorrowes usher but its funerall. [15]Which should revive, should there you a mourner be, And force a nuptiall in an obsequie. [15] Which would revive, should you there mourner be. 1634, 1635. _To the honourable my honoured kinsman_, Mr. G. T. Thrice hath the pale-fac'd Empresse of the night, Lent in her chaste increase her borrowed light, To guide the vowing Mariner: since mute _Talbot_ th'ast beene, too slothfull to salute Thy exil'd servant. Labour not t' excuse This dull neglect: Love never wants a Muse. When thunder summons from eternall sleepe Th' imprison'd ghosts, and spreads oth' frighted deepe, A veile of darknesse; penitent to be I may forget, yet still remember thee, Next to my faire, under whose eye-lids move, In nimble measures beauty, wit, and love. Nor thinke _Castara_ (though the sexe be fraile, And ever like uncertaine vessels saile On th' ocean of their passions; while each wind Triumphs to see their more uncertaine mind,) Can be induc't to alter: Every starre May in its motion grow irregular; The Sunne forget to yeeld his welcome flame To th' teeming earth, yet she remaine the same. And in my armes (if Poets may divine) I once that world of beauty shall intwine, And on her lips print volumes of my love, Without a froward checke, and sweetly move Ith' Labyrinth of delight. If not, Ile draw Her picture on my heart, and gently thaw With warmth of zeale, untill I heaven entreat, To give true life to th' ayery counterfeit. Eccho _to_ Narcissus. _In praise of_ CASTARA'S _discreete Love_. Scorn'd in thy watry Urne _Narcissus_ lye, Thou shalt not force more tribute from my eye T' increase thy streames: or make me weepe a showre, To adde fresh beauty to thee, now a flowre. But should relenting heaven restore thee sence, To see such wisedome temper innocence, In faire _Castara's_ love; how she discreet, Makes caution with a noble freedome meete, At the same moment; thould'st confesse fond boy, Fooles onely think them vertuous, who are coy. And wonder not that I, who have no choyce Of speech, have praysing her so free a voyce: Heaven her severest sentence doth repeale, When to _Castara_ I would speake my zeale. _To_ CASTARA, _Being debarr'd her presence_.