Thy vowes are heard, and thy _Castara's_ name Is writ as faire ith' Register of Fame, As th' ancient beauties which translated are By Poets up to heaven; each there a starre. And though Imperiall _Tiber_ boast alone _Ovids Corinna_, and to _Arn_ is knowne But _Petrarchs Laura_; while our famous Thames Doth murmur _Sydneyes Stella_ to her streames Yet hast thou _Severne_ left, and she can bring As many quires of Swans, as they to sing Thy glorious love: Which living shall by thee The onely Sov'raigne of those waters be. Dead in loves firmament, no starre shall shine So nobly faire, so purely chaste as thine. _To Vaine hope._ Thou dreame of madmen, ever changing gale, Swell with thy wanton breath the gaudy saile Of glorious fooles. Thou guid'st them who thee court To rocks, to quick-sands, or some faithlesse port. Were I not mad, who when secure at ease, I might ith' Cabbin passe the raging Seas, Would like a franticke shipboy wildly haste, To climbe the giddy top of th'unsafe mast? Ambition never to her hopes did faine A greatnesse, but I really obtaine In my _Castara_. Wer't not fondnesse then T' embrace[26] the shadowes of true blisse? And when My Paradise all flowers and fruits both breed: To rob a barren garden for a weed? [26] clip. 1634, 1635. _To_ CASTARA, _How happy, though in an obscure fortune_. Were we by fate throwne downe below our feare; Could we be poore? Or question Natures care In our provision? She who doth afford A feather'd garment fit for every bird, And onely voyce enough t'expresse delight. She who apparels Lillies in their white, As if in that she'de teach mans duller sence, Wh'are highest, should be so in innocence. She who in damaske doth attire the Rose, (And man t'himselfe a mockery to propose, 'Mong whom the humblest Judges grow to fit) She who in purple cloathes the Violet: If thus she cares for things even voyd of sence; Shall we suspect in us her providence? _To_ CASTARA. What can the freedome of our love enthrall? _Castara_ were we dispossest of all The gifts of fortune; richer yet than she Can make her slaves, wee'd in each other be. Love in himselfe's a world. If we should have A mansion but in some forsaken cave; Wee'd smooth misfortune: and our selves thinke then Retir'd like Princes from the noise of men, To breath a while unflatter'd. Each wild beast, That should the silence of our cell infest, With clamor, seeking prey; Wee'd fancie were Nought but an avaritious Courtier. Wealth's but opinion. Who thinks others more Of treasures have, than we, is[27] onely poore. [27] he's. 1634. _On the death of the Right Honourable_, GEORGE _Earle of S._