If not prophane; we'll say When Angels close, their joyes are such. For we not love obey That's bastard to a fleshly touch. Let's close _Castara_ then, since thus We patterne Angels, and they us. _To the Honourable_, G. T. Let not thy grones force Eccho from her cave, Or interrupt her weeping o're that wave, Which last _Narcissus_ kist: let no darke grove Be taught to whisper stories of thy love. What though the wind be turn'd? Canst thou not saile By vertue of a cleane contrary gale, Into some other Port? Where thou wilt find, It was thy better _Genius_ chang'd the wind, To steere thee to some Iland in the West, For wealth and pleasure, that transcends thy East. Though _Astrodora_, like a sullen starre Eclipse her selfe: Ith' sky of beauty are Ten thousand other fires, some bright as she. And who with milder beames, may shine on thee. Nor yet doth this Eclipse beare a portent, That should affright the world: The firmament Enjoyes the light it did, a Sunne as cleare, And the young Spring doth like a Bride appeare, As fairely wed to the _Thessalian_ grove As e're it was; though she and you not love. And we two, who like two bright stars have shin'd Ith' heaven of friendship, are as firmely joyn'd As bloud and love first fram'd us. And to be Lov'd, and thought worthy to be lov'd by thee, Is to be glorious. Since fame cannot lend An honour, equals that of _Talbots_ friend. Nor envie me that my _Castara's_ flame Yeelds me a constant warmth: Though first I came To marriage happy Ilands: Seas to thee Will yeeld as smooth a way, and winds as free. Which shall conduct thee (if hope may divine;) To this delicious port: and make love thine. _To_ CASTARA. _The reward of Innocent Love._ We saw and woo'd each others eyes, My soule contracted then with thine, And both burnt in one sacrifice. By which our Marriage grew divine. Let wilder youth, whose soule is sense, Prophane the Temple of delight. And purchase endlesse penitence, With the stolen pleasure of one night. Time's ever ours, while we dispise The sensuall idoll of our clay. For though the Sunne doe set and rise, We joy one everlasting day. Whose light no jealous clouds obscure, While each of us shine innocent. The troubled streame is still impure, With vertue flies away content. And though opinion often erre, Wee'le court the modest smile of fame. For sinnes blacke danger circles her, Who hath infection in her name. Thus when to one darke silent roome, Death shall our loving coffins thrust; Fame will build columnes on our tombe, And adde a perfume to our dust. _To my noble Friend, Sir_ I. P. _Knight_. Sir,