To Cynthia On His Being One With Her Poem by Francis Kynaston

When pure refined Gold is made in Coine,
And Silver is put to't as the allay,
Unlesse they both do melt, they will not joyne,
There being to mixe them both no other way;
So barres of iron in like kinde will not
Be piec'd together, nor be made in one,
Unlesse they both be made alike red hot:
Then joyne they as they had together growne.
By this I finde, there is no hope for me,
Ever to be united as a part
Of thy sweet selfe, or to be mixt with thee:
Brest joyn'd to brest, and heart commix'd with heart,
For that thy hard congeal'd and snow white brest
Cold as the North, that sends forth frosty weather,
And mine with flames of love warme as the West,
Will ne're admit that wee should ly together:
Unlesse my teares like showres of April raine,
Do thaw thy Ice to water backe againe:
Or else unlesse my naked breasts being laid
On thine, and alike cold, it may be said,
Of both our bosomes being joyned so,
That Alabaster frozen was in snow;
That so what heat together could not hold,
Should be combin'd, and made one by the cold.