Good to the poor, to kindred dear, To servants kind, to friendship clear, To nothing but herself severe. - Thomas Carew

Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.

I have learned thy arts, and now
Can disdain as much as thou.

Stand still, you floods, do not deface That image which you bear: So votaries, from every place, To you shall altars rear.</p>No winds but lovers' sighs blow here, To trouble these glad streams, On which no star from any sphere Did ever dart such beams.