SIR FRANCIS KINASTON.

1585-1644.

["Leoline and Sydanis." 1642.]

TO CYNTHIA, ON HER CHANGING.

DEAR Cynthia, though thou bear'st the name
Of the pale Queen of night,

Who changing yet is still the same,
Renewing still her light;

Who monthly doth herself conceal,
And her bright face doth hide,
That she may to Endymion steal,
And kiss him unespied;

Do not thou so, not being sure
When this thy beauty's gone,
That thou another canst procure,
And wear it as thy own;
For the by-sliding silent hours,
Conspirators with grief,

May crop thy beauty's lovely flowers,
Time being a sly thief,

Which with his wings will fly away,

And will return no more;

As, having got so rich a prey,

Nature can not restore.

Reserve thou, then, and do not waste
That beauty which is thine;
Cherish those glories that thou hast,

Let not grief make thee pine.

Think that the lily, we behold,
Or July flower may

Flourish, although the mother mould
That bred them be away;

There is no cause, nor yet no sense,

That dainty fruits should rot, Though the tree die and wither, whence The apricots were got.

SYDNEY GODOLPHIN.

1610-1643.

SONG.

OR love me less, or love me more;
And play not with my liberty :
Either take all, or all restore;

Bind me at least, or set me free!
Let me some nobler torture find
Than of a doubtful wavering mind:
Take all my peace! but you betray
Mine honour too, this cruel way.

"Tis true that I have nursed before

That hope, of which I now complain;
And, having little, sought no more,

Fearing to meet with your disdain.
The sparks of favour you did give,
I gently blew, to make them live;

And yet have gained, by all this care,
No rest in hope, nor in despair.

I see you wear that pitying smile

Which you have still vouchsafed my smart,

Content thus cheaply to beguile

And entertain an harmless heart:

But I no longer can give way

To hope which doth so little pay;

And yet I dare no freedom owe,
Whilst you are kind, though but in show.

Then give me more, or give me less:
Do not disdain a mutual sense;

Or your unpitying beauties dress

In their own free indifference!

But show not a severer eye,
Sooner to give me liberty;

For I shall love the very scorn

Which, for my sake, you do put on.

WILLIAM CARTRIGHT.

1611-1643.

[“ Comedies, Tragi-comedies, with other Poems." 1651.]

A SIGH SENT TO HIS ABSENT LOVE.

I SENT a sigh unto my blest one's ear,
Which lost its way, and never did come there;

I hastened after, lest some other fair

Should mildly entertain this travelling air;
Each flowery garden I did search, for fear

It might mistake a lily for her ear;

And having there took lodging, might still dwell
Housed in the concave of a crystal bell.
At last, one frosty morning I did spy
This subtle wanderer journeying in the sky;
At sight of me it trembled, then drew near,
Then grieving fell, and dropped into a tear:
I bore it to my saint, and prayed her take
This new-born offspring for the master's sake:

She took it, and preferred it to her ear,

And now it hears each thing that's whispered there.

O how I envy grief, when that I see

My sorrow makes a gem more blest than me!

Yet, little pendant, porter to the ear,

Let not my rival have admittance there;
Or if by chance a mild access he gain,

Upon her lip inflict a gentle pain