NIGHT. No conquest weares a glorious wreath Which dangers not obtaine: Let tempests 'gainst thee shipwracke breathe, Thou shalt thy harbour gaine. ARAPH. Truths _Delphos_ doth not still foretell, Though _Sol_ th' inspirer be. How then should night as blind as hell, Ensuing truths fore-see? NIGHT. The Sunne yeelds man no constant flame. One light those Priests inspires. While I though blacke am still the same, And have ten thousand fires. ARAPH. But those, sayes my propheticke feare, As funerall torches burne; While thou thy selfe the blackes dost weare, T' attend me to my Urne. NIGHT. Thy feares abuse thee, for those lights In _Hymens_ Church shall shine, When he by th' mystery of his rites, Shall make _Castara_ thine. _To the Right Honourable_, _the Lady_, E. P. Your judgement's cleere, not wrinckled with the Time, On th' humble fate: which censures it a crime, To be by vertue ruin'd. For I know Y'are not so various as to ebbe and flow Ith' streame of fortune, whom each faithlesse winde Distracts, and they who made her, fram'd her blinde. Possession makes us poore. Should we obtaine All those bright jems, for which ith' wealthy Maine, The tann'd slave dives; or in one boundlesse chest Imprison all the treasures of the West, We still should want. Our better part's immence, Not like th' inferiour, limited by sence. Rich with a little, mutuall love can lift Us to a greatnesse, whether chance or thrift E're rais'd her servants. For though all were spent, That can create an _Europe_ in content. Thus (Madam) when _Castara_ lends an eare Soft to my hope, I Loves Philosopher, Winne on her faith. For when I wondring stand At th' intermingled beauty of her hand, (Higher I dare not gaze) to this bright veine I not ascribe the blood of _Charlemaine_ Deriv'd by you to her. Or say there are In that and th'other _Marmion_, _Rosse_, and _Parr Fitzhugh_, _Saint Quintin_, and the rest of them That adde such lustre to great _Pembrokes_ stem. My love is envious. Would _Castara_ were The daughter of some mountaine cottager, Who with his toile worne out, could dying leave Her no more dowre, than what she did receive From bounteous nature. Her would I then lead To th' Temple, rich in her owne wealth; her head Crown'd with her haires faire treasure; diamonds in Her brighter eyes; soft Ermines in her skin; Each Indie in each cheeke. Then all who vaunt, That fortune, them t' enrich, made others want, Should set themselves out glorious in her stealth, And trie if that, could parallel this wealth. _To_ CASTARA. _Departing upon the approach of Night._