Banisht from you, I charg'd the nimble winde, My unseene Messenger, to speake my minde, In am'rous whispers to you. But my Muse Lest the unruly spirit should abuse The trust repos'd in him, sayd it was due To her alone, to sing my loves to you. Heare her then speake. Bright Lady, from whose eye Shot lightning to his heart, who joyes to dye A martyr in your flames: O let your love Be great and firme as his: Then nought shall move Your setled faiths, that both may grow together: Or if by Fate divided, both may wither. Hark! 'twas a groane. Ah how sad absence rends His troubled thoughts! See, he from _Marlow_ sends His eyes to _Seymors_. Then chides th' envious trees, And unkinde distance. Yet his fancie sees And courts your beauty, joyes as he had cleav'd Close to you, and then weepes because deceiv'd. Be constant as y'are faire. For I fore-see A glorious triumph waits o'th victorie Your love will purchase, shewing us to prize A true content. There onely Love hath eyes. _To_ Seymors, _The house in which_ CASTARA _lived_. Blest Temple, haile, where the Chast Altar stands, Which Nature built, but the exacter hands Of Vertue polisht. Though sad Fate deny My prophane feete accesse, my vowes shall flye. May those Musitians, which divide the ayre With their harmonious breath, their flight prepare, For this glad place, and all their accents frame, To teach the Eccho my _Castara's_ name. The beautious troopes of graces led by love In chaste attempts, possesse the neighb'ring grove Where may the Spring dwell still. May every tree Turne to a Laurell, and propheticke be. Which shall in its first Oracle divine, That courteous Fate decree _Castara_ mine. _To the_ Dew, _In hope to see_ CASTARA _walking_. Bright Dew which dost the field adorne As th' earth to welcome in the morne, Would hang a jewell on each corne. Did not the pittious night, whose eares Have oft beene conscious of my feares Distill you from her eyes as teares? Or that _Castara_ for your zeale, When she her beauties shall reveale, Might you to Dyamonds congeale? If not your pity, yet how ere Your care I praise, 'gainst she appeare, To make the wealthy Indies here. But see she comes. Bright lampe oth' skie, Put out thy light: the world shall spie, A fairer Sunne in either eye. And liquid Pearle, hang heavie now On every grasse that it may bow In veneration of her brow. Yet if the wind should curious be, And were I here, should question thee, Hee's full of whispers, speak not me. But if the busie tell-tale day, Our happy enterview betray; Lest thou confesse too, melt away. _To_ CASTARA.