Forsake with me the earth, my faire, And travell nimbly through the aire, Till we have reacht th' admiring skies; Then lend sight to those heavenly eyes Which blind themselves, make creatures see. And taking view of all, when we Shall finde a pure and glorious spheare; Wee'le fix like starres for ever there. Nor will we still each other view, Wee'le gaze on lesser starres then you; See how by their weake influence they, The strongest of mens actions sway. In an inferiour orbe below, Wee'le see _Calisto_ loosely throw Her haire abroad: as she did weare, The self-same beauty in a Beare, As when she a cold Virgin stood, And yet inflam'd _Joves_ lustfull blood. Then looke on _Lede_, whose faire beames By their reflection guild those streames, Where first unhappy she began To play the wanton with a Swan. If each of these loose beauties are Transform'd to a more beauteous starre By the adult'rous lust of _Jove_; Why should not we, by purer love? _To_ CASTARA, _Upon the death of a Lady_. _Castara_ weepe not, though her tombe appeare Sometime thy griefe to answer with a teare: The marble will but wanton with thy woe. Death is the Sea, and we like Rivers flow To lose our selves in the insatiate Maine, Whence Rivers may, she[20] ne're returne againe. Nor grieve this Christall streame so soone did fall Into the Ocean; since she perfum'd all The banks she past, so that each neighbour field Did sweete flowers cherish by her watring, yeeld. Which now adorne her Hearse. The violet there On her pale cheeke doth the sad livery weare, Which heavens compassion gave her; And since she Cause cloath'd in purple can no mourner be, As incense to the tombe she gives her breath, And fading, on her Lady waits in death. Such office the Ægyptian handmaids did Great _Cleopatra_, when she dying chid The Asps slow venome, trembling she should be By Fate rob'd even of that blacke victory. The flowers instruct our sorrowes. Come then all Ye beauties, to true beauties funerall, And with her, to increase deaths pompe, decay. Since the supporting fabricke of your clay Is faine, how can ye stand? How can the night Shew stars, when Fate puts out the dayes great light? But 'mong the faire, if there live any yet, She's but the fairer _Digbies_ counterfeit. Come you who speake your titles. Reade in this Pale booke, how vaine a boast your greatnesse is. What's honour but a hatchment? what is here Of _Percy_ left, and _Stanly_, names most deare To vertue? but a crescent turn'd to th' wane, An Eagle groaning o're an infant slaine? Or what availes her, that she once was led, A glorious bride to valiant _Digbies_ bed, Since death hath them divorc'd? If then alive There are, who these sad obsequies survive