To Cynthia On A Kisse Poem by Francis Kynaston

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,
Then are of Starrs in all Astronomie,
Nay naturall Philosophy, that containes
Each thing that in the Universe remaines;
Nor more, nor such materials affords,
Could we for the expression finde but words.
But surely of thy kindenesse I'me afraid,
Or bounty very little can be say'd:
A page in Decimo sexto will suffice
For them, which if one should Epitomise
Like an Arithmetitian, that hath wrought,
And hath a unite to a cipher brought,
He certenly no other thing should do
Then cleave a Geometricall point in two.
Thy bounty on a halfe peny may be set,
And they that serve thee, sure do nothing get:
For when thy faithfull servants wages is,
No more from thee then quarterly a kisse,
Penurious thou unjustly dost detaine
His Salarie so long, that he is faine,
(Because thou dost thy lips so strictly keep)
To take it from thee when thou art asleep:
And if that thou art waking by some slight
Or stratagem he must come by his righ:
There is no justice, where there's no way left
To get our owne, but violence, or theft:
And therefore Cynthia, as a Turquois bought,
Or stolne, or found, is vertules, and nought.
It must be freely given by a friend,
Whose love and bounty doth such vertue lend,
As makes it to compassionate, and tell
By looking pale, the wearer is not well.
So one kisse given shall content me more,
Then if that I had taken halfe a score:
Thy Rubie lips like Turquoises, ne're shall
By giving kisses waxe, or dry, or pale.