CYNTHIADES: TO CYNTHIA. AN APOLOGY by FRANCIS KYNASTON

EXPECT not, lovely Cynthia, yet from me
Lines like thy fairest self, so clear, so free
From any blemish, for what now I write,
Is like a picture done in a dim light,
A night-piece, for my soul is overcast,
As is a mirror with a humid blast,
Or breathing on it: and a misty cloud,
Thy beauties, brightness in a veil doth shroud.
These lines of mine are only to be read
To make thee drowsy when thou go'st to bed,
For the long gloomy dark, and clouded sky,
That the Sun's brightness to us doth deny,
Darkens all souls, and damps all human sense,
That to his light hath any reference,
And quenches so those hot and amorous flames,
That would have made the water of the Thames
Burn like canary-sack, more dull, and cold,
Than wine at Court, which is both small and old:
Give me a little respite then to end
That romance, which to thy name I intend,
Till Hampton Court, or Greenwich purer air,
Produce lines like thyself, serene and fair:
Meantime imagine that Newcastle coals,
Which as (Sir Inigo saith) have perisht Paul's,
And by the skill of Marquis would-be Jones,
'Tis found the smoke's salt did corrupt the stones:
Think thou I am in London where I have
No intermission, but to be a slave
To other men's affairs more than my own,
And have no leisure for to be alone:
Yet, dearest Cynthia, think thus much of me,
By night I do both think, and dream of thee,
And that which I shall write in thy high praise,
Shall be the work of fair and sunshine days:
Nor to describe thee will I take the pains,
But in the hour when Jove, or Venus reigns.

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