You Poets reach not this, who sing The praise of dust But kneaded, when by theft you bring The rose and Lilly from the Spring T' adorne the wrinckled face of lust. When we speake Love, nor art, nor wit We glosse upon: Our soules engender, and beget _Idaas_, which you counterfeit In your dull propagation. While Time, seven ages shall disperse, Wee'le talke of Love, And when our tongues hold no commerse. Our thoughts shall mutually converse. And yet the blood no rebell prove. And though we be of severall kind Fit for offence: Yet are we so by Love refin'd, From impure drosse we are all mind. Death could not more have conquer'd sence. How suddenly those flames expire Which scorch our clay? _Prometheas_-like when we steale fire From heaven 'tis endlesse and intire It may know age, but not decay. _To the_ Winter. Why dost thou looke so pale, decrepit man? Why doe thy cheeks curle like the Ocean, Into such furrowes? Why dost thou appeare So shaking, like an ague to the yeare? The Sunne is gone. But yet _Castara_ stayes, And will adde stature to thy Pigmy dayes, Warme moysture to thy veynes: her smile can bring Thee the sweet youth, and beauty of the Spring. Hence with thy palsie then, and on thy head Weare flowrie chaplets as a bridegroome led To th' holy Fane. Banish thy aged ruth, That Virgins may admire and court thy youth. And the approaching Sunne when she shall finde A Spring without him, fall, since uselesse, blinde. _Upon a visit to_ CASTARA _in the Night_. T'was Night: when _Phœbe_ guided by thy rayes, Chaste as my zeale, with incence of her praise, I humbly crept to my _Castara's_ shrine. But oh my fond mistake! for there did shine A noone of beauty, with such lustre crown'd, As shewd 'mong th' impious onely night is found. It was her eyes which like two Diamonds shin'd, Brightest ith' dark. Like which could th' Indian find, But one among his rocks, he would out vie In brightnesse all the Diamonds of the Skie. But when her lips did ope, the Phœnix nest Breath'd forth her odours; where might _Jove_ once feast, Hee'd loath his heavenly surfets: if we dare Affirme, _Jove_ hath a heaven without my faire. _To_ CASTARA, _Of the chastity of his Love_.