To CASTARA, Vpon the disguising his affection.

PRonounce me guilty of a Blacker crime,
Then e're in the Large volume writ by Time,
The sad Historian reades, if not my Art
Dissembles love, to veile an am'rous heart,
For when the zealous anger of my friend
Checkes my unusuall sadnesse: I pretend
To study vertue, which indeede I doe,
He must court vertue who aspires to you.
Or that some friend is dead and then a teare,
A sigh or groane steales from me: for I feare
Lest death with love hath strooke my heart, and all
These sorrowes usher but its funerall.
Which should revive, should there you a mourner▪ be,
And force a nuptiall in an obsequie.