To Cynthia On Her Resemblance Poem by Francis Kynaston

Forgive me Cynthia, if (as Poets use,
When they some divine Beauty would expresse)
I Roses, Pinkes, or July-floures do chuse:
It is a kinde of weaknesse I confesse,
To praise the great'st perfection by a lesse:
And is the same, as if one strove to paint
The holinesse or vertues of a Saint.
Yet there is a necessity impos'd,
For those bright Angels, which we vertues call
Had not been knowne, had they not been inclos'd
In pretious stones, or things diaphanall:
The essences and formes cœlestiall,
Had been conceal'd, had not the heavenly powers
Been stamp'd, and printed on stones, trees, and flowers.
So thy divine pure soul, and every grace,
And heavenly beauty it doth comprehend,
Had not been seen, but for thy lovely face,
Which with Angel-like features may contend,
Which into flesh and bloud did downe descend,
That she her purest essence might disclose
In it, as thy fair cheekes do in the Rose.