To CASTARA. Vpon Beautie.

CAstara, see that dust, the sportive vvind
So vvantons vvith. 'Tis happ'ly all you'le finde
Left of some beauty: and hovv still it flies.
To trouble, as it did in life, our eyes.
O empty boast of flesh? Though our heires gild
The farre fetch Phrigian marble, vvhich shall build
A burthen to our a he…, y…t will death
Betray them to the sport of every breath.
Dost thou, poore relique of our frailty, still
Swell up with glory? Or is it thy skill,
To mocke weake man, whom every wind of praise
Into the aire, doth 'bove his center raise.
If so, mocke on, And tell him that his lust
To beauti's, madnesse. For it courts but dust.