Francis Kynaston Poems

Twice hath bright Cynthia wan'd, twice fill'd her round,
Since England with continuall raine lies drownd;
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What sweetnesse is in fruits, in Nectorine,
Peach, cherry, apricocke, those lips of thine,
Cynthia expresse: what colors grace the rose,
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When I behold the heaven of thy face,
And see how every beauty, every grace
Move, and are there:
As in their Sphere,
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Expect not (lovely Cynthia) yet from me
Lines like thy fairest selfe, so cleere, so free
From any blemish, for what now I write,
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Beeing thy servant Cynthia, 'tis my duty
To make thy name as glorious as thy beauty.
Of which things may be writ farre more and high,
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So would a soul, if that it did but know
(Being form'd in heaven) how that it was to go
To a darke wombe on earth from heavenly blisse,
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Giving thee once a visit of respect,
Because I some affaires could not neglect,
Which much concern'd me, brooking no delay,
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Do not conceale thy radiant eyes,
The starre-light of serenest skies,
Least wanting of their heavenly light,
They turne to Chaos endlesse night.
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Must I beleeve (sweet Cynthia) that the flame
Hath light, and heat had I ne're felt the same?
Must I beleeve the cold and hardest flint,
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Say (sweetest) whether thou didst use me well,
If when in my hearts house I let thee dwell
A welcome Inmate, and did not require
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