To Cynthia On Verses On Her Poem by Francis Kynaston

There is no sense, that I should write a line
On such a beauty (Cynthia) as thine;
I am no Poet, and it is in vain,
Since thou exceed'st all worth, to strive to fain:
On my poor lines the Thespian well ne're dropt,
From me the fount of Helicon is stopt:
I ne're was so ill bred as to invoke
Apollo, and to sacrifice with smoke
Of coales, or billets, nor yet am I able,
In the west-end of Cardinall Wolsey's stable,
To keep a Pegasus, a horse that might
Advance my muse by his swift nimble flight:
Yet like a man opprest with grief and cares,
Law-suits, and troubles, so with me it fares:
If he but take a lusty joviall drinke,
Forgets all sorrowes, so if I but thinke
On thee, or thy chaste beauty, then my chear
Is chang'd, no clouds do in my soul appear;
Thy rare divinest beauty so expels
With joyes the horror of ten thousand hels.