To Cynthia On Her Mothers Decease Poem by Francis Kynaston

April is past, then do not shed,
Nor do not waste in vain,
Upon thy mothers earthy bed,
Thy teares of silver rain.
Thou canst not hope that her cold earth,
By watring will bring forth,
A flower like thee, or will give birth,
To one of the like worth.
'Tis true the rain falne from the sky,
Or from the clouded air,
Doth make the earth to fructifie,
And makes the heaven more fair.
With thy dear face it is not so,
Which if once overcast,
If thou rain downe thy showres of wo,
They like the Syrens blast.
Therefore when sorrow shall becloud,
Thy fair serenest day,
Weep not, my sighes shall be allow'd
To chace the storme away.
Consider that the teeming Vine,
If cut by chance do weep,
Doth bear no grapes to make the wine,
But feeles eternall sleep.