To Cynthia On Her Coynesse Poem by Francis Kynaston

What sweetnesse is in fruits, in Nectorine,
Peach, cherry, apricocke, those lips of thine,
Cynthia expresse: what colors grace the rose,
The Jessamine, the lilly, pinke, all those,
Whether it be in colours, or in smels,
Are emblems of thy body, which excels
All flowers in purity, but can we finde
A flower, or herbe an emblem of thy minde?
Yes the coy shame-fac'd plant Pudefetan,
Which is endu'd with sense, for if a man
Come near the female, and his finger put
Upon her leafe, she instantly will shut
Close all her branches, as she did disdain
The handling of a man, and spread again
Her leaves abroad, when as a man is gone,
And she is in her earthy bed alone:
This Indian plant a man may well suppose,
Within the garden of thy bosome growes,
Which though it be invisible hath such
A property, to make thee flie my tuch:
And sure the plant hath such a sympathy,
As that it will not close her leaves to thee;
And if thou comm'st, her selfe she will not hide,
But will (more nice than she) thy touch abide.