Ostella, or, The faction of love and beauty reconcil'd by I.T., Gent.

To a vertuous Lady, on whom Envy had thrown a Scandal, for which she Mourned, and hung her Chamber with Blacks.

LEt not the Sables so benight your eys, nor yet entomb your Beauty ere it dics; Envy doth from this Sorrow gather strength, and grows more huge and monstrous in length: He gluts himself upon your Discontent, and raiseth from your Sighs his Merriment. The giddy people, that nought understands▪ Strangers to Truth, will▪ like to firebrands, Kindle a hot suspicion in each other, till they your Honour and your Fame do smother. A Stream that may be stopt at the Springs head, if let alone may over-flow a Mead, Nay drown a League of Earth. Now Envy sings; and t'paint his Falshood like to Truth, he brings

This inference; Sorrow doth Guilt imply, and your offence makes you so often die. Then Madam tear those Death-like-Sables thence, in th' stead set up your Flags of Innocence: And brave Desiance that Truth's light may be no longer hid by Envtes Trechery. Thus re-assuming your Hearts jollity, Envie will want his food, so starving die.