Cynthia, On Her Faire Eyes Poem by Francis Kynaston

Looke not upon me with those lovely Eyes,
From whom there flies
So many a dart
To wound a heart,
That still in vaine to thee for mercy cries,
Yet dies, whether thou grantest, or denies.
Of thy coy lookes, know, I do not complaine,
Nor of disdain:
Those, sudden, like
The lightning strike,
And kill me without any lingring paine,
And slaine so once, I cannot dy againe.
But O, thy sweet looks from my eyes conceale,
Which so oft steale
My soule from me,
And bring to thee
A wounded heart, which though it do reveale
The hurts thou giv'st it, yet thou canst not heale.
Upon those sweets I surfet still, yet I
Wretch cannot dy,
But am reviv'd,
And made long liv'd
By often dying, since thy gracious eye,
Like heaven, makes not a death, but extasie.
Then in the heaven of that beauteous face,
Since thou dost place
A Martyrd heart,
Whose blisse thou art,
Since thou hast ta'ne the soule, this favour do,
Into thy bosome take the body to.