An answere to CASTARA'S question.

T'Is I Castara, who when thou wert gone,
Did freeze into this melancholly stone,
To weepe the minutes of thy absence. Where
Can greefe have freer scope to mourne than here?
The Larke here practiseth a sweeter straine,
Aurora's early blush to entertaine,
And having too deepe tasted of these streames,
He loves, and amorously courts her beames.
The courteous turtle with a wandring zeale,
Saw how to stone I did my selfe congeale,
And murm'ring askt what power this change did move,
The language of my waters whispered, Love.
And thus transform'd Ile stand, till I shall see,
That heart so ston'd and frozen, thaw'd in thee.