To Cynthia On A Parting Kisse Poem by Francis Kynaston

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,
Regreet, as I do at our parting kisse;
For when I part from thee, though the delight
Of the kisse is a Sun-beam before night;
Yet I much better should endure the pain,
Were I but sure that we should kisse again;
But being uncertain, like a soul in fear,
Whether it shall returne to the same Sphere,
Or star, or house cœlestiall, whence it came:
My Cynthia, Beauties queen, thou canst not blame
My fear, nor my credulity in this,
If I considering of our parting kisse,
Shall straight affirme that on thy lip doth dwell
At once a heavenly pleasure, and a hell;
For in our kisse is blisse without dimension,
And in our parting grief, beyond extension:
O do me then the favour done to those,
Die on the Blocke, to whom the headsman showes,
Nor sword, nor axe, nor doth the Traitor know,
When he will strike, untill he feel the blow:
Use me then so, let's kisse so oft, so fast,
I may not know, which kisse shall be my last.