You'd leave the silence in which safe we are, To listen to the noyse of warre; And walke those rugged paths, the factious tread, Who by the number of the dead Reckon their glories, and thinke greatnesse stood Unsafe, till it was built on blood. Secure ith' wall our Seas and ships provide (Abhorring wars so barb'rous pride And honour bought with slaughter) in content Lets breath though humble, innocent. Folly and madnesse! Since 'tis ods we nere See the fresh youth of the next yeare. Perhaps not the chast morne, her selfe disclose Againe, t'out-blush th' æmulous rose, Why doth ambition so the mind distresse To make us scorne what we possesse? And looke so farre before us? Since all we Can hope, is varied misery? Goe find some whispering shade neare _Arne_ or _Poe_, And gently 'mong their violets throw Your wearyed limbs, and see if all those faire Enchantments can charme griefe or care? Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when you The ruin'd Capitoll shall view And statues, a disorder'd heape; you can Not cure yet the disease of man, And banish your owne thoughts. Goe travaile where Another Sun and Starres appeare, And land not toucht by any covetous fleet, And yet even there your selfe you'le meet. Stay here then, and while curious exiles find New toyes for a fantastique mind; Enjoy at home what's reall: here the Spring By her aeriall quires doth sing As sweetly to you, as if you were laid Under the learn'd _Thessalian_ shade, Direct your eye-sight inward, and you'le find A thousand regions in your mind Yet undiscover'd. Travell them, and be Expert in home Cosmographie. This you may doe safe both from rocke and shelfe: Man's a whole world within him selfe. _To_ CASTARA. Give me a heart where no impure Disorder'd passions rage, Which jealousie doth not obscure, Not vanity t' expence ingage, Nor wooed to madnesse by quient oathes, Or the fine Rhetoricke of cloathes, Which not the softnesse of the age To vice or folly doth decline; Give me that heart (_Castara_) for 'tis thine. Take thou a heart where no new looke Provokes new appetite: With no fresh charme of beauty tooke, Or wanton stratagem of wit; Not Idly wandring here and there, Led by an am'rous eye or eare. Ayming each beautious marke to hit; Which vertue doth to one confine: Take thou that heart, _Castara_, for 'tis mine. And now my heart is lodg'd with thee, Observe but how it still Doth listen how thine doth with me; And guard it well, for else it will Runne hither backe; not to be where I am, but 'cause thy heart is here. But without discipline, or skill. Our hearts shall freely 'tweene us move; Should thou or I want hearts, wee'd breath by love.