CYNTHIADES: TO CYNTHIA ON A KISS by FRANCIS KYNASTON

BEING thy servant, Cynthia, 'tis my duty
To make thy name as glorious as thy beauty.
Of which things may be writ far more and high,
Than are of stars in all astronomy,
Nay, natural philosophy, that contains
Each thing that in the Universe remains;
Nor more, nor such materials affords,
Could we for the expression find but words.
But surely of thy kindness I'm afraid,
Or bounty, very little can be said:
A page in decimo sexto will suffice
For them, which if one should epitomise
Like an arithmetician, that hath wrought,
And hath a unit to a cipher brought,
He certainly no other thing should do
Than cleave a geometrical point in two.
Thy bounty on a half-penny may be set,
And they that serve thee, sure do nothing get:
For when thy faithful servant's wages is
No more from thee than quarterly a kiss,
Penurious thou unjustly dost detain
His salary so long, that he is fain,
(Because thou dost thy lips so strictly keep)
To take it from thee when thou art asleep:
And if that thou art waking, by some slight
Or stratagem he must come by his right:
There is no justice, where there's no way left
To get our own, but violence, or theft:
And therefore, Cynthia, as a turquois[e] bought,
Or stol'n, or found, is virtueless, and nought,
It must be freely given by a friend,
Whose love and bounty doth such virtue lend,
As makes it to compassionate, and tell
By looking pale, the wearer is not well.
So one kiss given shall content me more,
Than if that I had taken half a score:
Thy ruby lips, like turquoises, ne'er shall
By giving kisses wax, or dry, or pale.

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