_Castara_, see that dust, the sportive wind So wantons with. 'Tis happ'ly all you'le finde Left of some beauty: and how still it flies, To trouble, as it did in life, our eyes. O empty boast of flesh? Though our heires gild The farre fetch Phrigian marble, which shall build A burthen to our ashes, yet will death Betray them to the sport of every breath. Dost thou, poor relique of our frailty, still Swell up with glory? Or is it thy skill, To mocke weake man, whom every wind of praise Into the aire, doth 'bove his center raise. If so, mocke on, And tell him that his lust To beauty's, madnesse. For it courts but dust. _To_ CASTARA, _Melancholly_. Were but that sigh a penitentiall breath That thou art mine: It would blow with it death, T' inclose me in my marble: Where I'de be Slave to the tyrant wormes, to set thee free. What should we envy? Though with larger saile Some dance upon the Ocean: yet more fraile And faithlesse is that wave, than where we glide, Blest in the safety of a private tide. We still have land in ken. And 'cause our boat Dares not affront the weather, wee'le ne're float Farre from the shore. To daring them each cloud Is big with thunder, every wind speakes loud. And though wild rockes about the shore appeare Yet vertue will finde roome to anchor there. _A Dialogue betweene_ ARAPHILL _and_ CASTARA. ARAPH. _Castara_, you too fondly court The silken peace with which we cover'd are, Unquiet time may for his sport, Up from its iron den rowse sleepy warre. CAST. Then in the language of the drum, I will instruct my yet affrighted eare, All women shall in me be dumbe; If I but with my _Araphill_ be there? ARAPH. If Fate like an unfaithfull gale, Which having vow'd to th' ship a faire event, Oth' sudden rends her hopefull saile; Blow ruine; will _Castara_ then repent? CAST. Love shall in that tempestuous showre Her brightest blossome like the blacke-thorne show: Weake friendship prospers by the powre Of fortunes Sunne. I'le in her winter grow. ARAPH. If on my skin the noysome skar I should oth'leprosie, or canker weare; Or if the sulph'rous breath of warre Should blast my youth; Should I not be thy feare? CAST. In flesh may sicknesse horror move, But heavenly zeale will be by it refin'd, For then wee'd like two Angels love, Without a sense; imbrace[22] each others mind. ARAPH. Were it not impious to repine; 'Gainst rigid Fate I should direct my breath. That two must be, whom heaven did joyne In such a happy one, disjoyn'd by death.