II. In marble, steele, or porphyrie, Who carves or stampes his armes or face, Lookes it by rust or storme must dye: This womans love no time can raze, Hardned like ice in the sun's eye, Or your reflection in a glasse, Which keepes possession, though you passe. III. We not behold a watches hand To stir, nor plants or flowers to grow; Must we infer that this doth stand, And therefore, that those do not blow? This she acts calmer, like Heav'ns brand, The stedfast lightning, slow loves dart, She kils, but ere we feele the smart. IV. Oh, she is constant as the winde, That revels in an ev'nings aire! Certaine as wayes unto the blinde, More reall then her flatt'ries are; Gentle as chaines that honour binde, More faithfull then an Hebrew Jew, But as the divel not halfe so true. AMYNTOR<31.1> FROM BEYOND THE SEA TO ALEXIS.<31.2> A DIALOGUE. Amyntor. Alexis! ah Alexis! can it be, Though so much wet and drie Doth drowne our eye, Thou keep'st thy winged voice from me? Alexis. Amyntor, a profounder sea, I feare, Hath swallow'd me, where now My armes do row, I floate i'th' ocean of a teare. Lucasta weepes, lest I look back and tread Your Watry land againe. Amyn. I'd through the raine; Such showrs are quickly over-spread. Conceive how joy, after this short divorce, Will circle her with beames, When, like your streames, You shall rowle back with kinder force, And call the helping winds to vent your thought. Alex. Amyntor! Chloris! where Or in what sphere Say, may that glorious fair be sought? Amyn. She's now the center of these armes e're blest, Whence may she never move, Till Time and Love Haste to their everlasting rest. Alex. Ah subtile swaine! doth not my flame rise high As yours, and burne as hot? Am not I shot With the selfe same artillery? And can I breath without her air?--Amyn. Why, then, From thy tempestuous earth, Where blood and dearth Raigne 'stead of kings, agen Wafte thy selfe over, and lest storms from far Arise, bring in our sight The seas delight, Lucasta, that bright northerne star. Alex. But as we cut the rugged deepe, I feare The green god stops his fell Chariot of shell, And smooths the maine to ravish her. Amyn. Oh no, the prince of waters' fires are done; He as his empire's old, And rivers, cold; His queen now runs abed to th' sun;