Classic Poem

Castara , see that dust, the sportive wind
So wantons with. 'Tis happ'ly all you'le finde
Left of some beauty: and how 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, which shall build
A burthen to our ashes, yet will death
Betray them to the sport of every breath.
Dost thou, poor 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 beauty's, madnesse. For it courts but dust.