CAST. That's no divource. Then shall we see The rites in life, were types o'th marriage state, Our soules on earth contracted be; But they in heaven their nuptials consumate. [22] Without a sense; and clip each others mind. 1634, 1635. [23]_To the Right Honourable_ HENRY _Lord_ M. My Lord. My thoughts are not so rugged, nor doth earth So farre predominate in me, that mirth Lookes not as lovely as when our delight First fashion'd wings to adde a nimbler flight To lazie time; who would, to have survai'd Our varied pleasures, there have ever staid. And they were harmelesse. For obedience If frailty yeelds to the wild lawes of sence; We shall but with a sugred venome meete; No pleasure, if not innocent as sweet. And that's your choyce: who adde the title good To that of noble. For although the blood Of _Marshall_, _Stanley_, and '_La Pole_ doth flow With happy _Brandon's_ in your veines; you owe Your vertue not to them. Man builds alone Oth' ground of honour: For desert's our owne. Be that your ayme. I'le with _Castara_ sit Ith' shade, from heat of businesse. While my wit Is neither big with an ambitious ayme, To build tall Pyramids Ith' court of fame, For after ages, or to win conceit Oth' present, and grow in opinion great. Rich in our selves, we envy not the East, Her rockes of Diamonds, or her gold the West. _Arabia_ may be happy in the death Of her reviving _Phœnix_; In the breath Of coole _Favonius_, famous be the grove Of _Tempe_; while we in each others love. For that let us be fam'd. And when of all That Nature made us two, the funerall Leaves but a little dust; (which then as wed, Even after death, shall sleepe still in one bed.) The Bride and Bridegroome on the solemne day, Shall with warm zeale approach our Urne, to pay Their vowes, that heaven should blesse so farre their rites, To shew them the faire paths to our delights. [23] _To the Right Honourable, my very good Lord_ HENRY _Lord_ M. _To a Tombe._ Tyrant o're tyrants, thou who onely dost Clip the lascivious beauty without lust; What horror at thy sight shootes through each sence; How powerfull is thy silent eloquence, Which never flatters? Thou instruct'st the proud, That their swolne pompe is but an empty cloud, Slave to each wind. The faire, those flowers they have Fresh in their cheeke, are strewd upon a grave. Thou tell'st the rich, their Idoll is but earth. The vainely pleas'd, that Syren-like their mirth Betrayes to mischiefe, and that onely he Dares welcome death, whose aimes at vertue be. Which yet more zeale doth to _Castara_ move. What checks me, when the tombe perswades to love? _To_ CASTARA, _Upon thought of Age and Death_.