To Cynthia On Her Changing Poem by Francis Kynaston

Dear Cynthia, though thou bear'st the name
Of the pale Queen of night,
Who changing yet is still the same
Renewing still her light:
Who monethly doth her selfe conceal,
And her bright face doth hide,
That she may to Endymion steal,
And kisse him unespide.
Do not thou so, not being sure,
When this thy beautie's gone,
Thou such another canst procure,
And wear it as thine owne,
For the by-sliding silent houres,
Conspiratours with grief,
May crop thy beauties lovely flowres,
Time being a slie thief.
Which with his wings will flie away,
And will returne no more;
As having got so rich a prey,
Nature can not restore:
Reserve thou then, and do not waste
That beauty which is thine,
Cherish those glories which thou hast,
Let not grief make thee pine.
Thinke that the Lilly we behold,
Or July-flower may
Flourish, although the mother mold,
That bred them be away.
There is no cause, nor yet no sence,
That dainty fruits should rot,
Though the tree die, and wither, whence
The Apricots were got.