CYNTHIADES: TO CYNTHIA ON A HER CHANGING by FRANCIS KYNASTON

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,
Thou such another canst procure,
And wear it as thine 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 cannot restore:
Reserve thou then, and do not waste
That beauty which is thine,
Cherish those glories which 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 not,
Though the tree die, and wither, whence
The apricots were got.

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