To such a place our camp remove,
As will no siege abide;

I hate a fool that starves her love,
Only to feed her pride.

SONG.

Out upon it! I have loved
Three whole days together,
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.

Time shalt moult away his wings,
Ere he shall discover

In the whole wide world again,
Such a constant lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise
Is due at all to me;

Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she,

And that very face,

There had been at least ere this
A dozen in her place.

SONNET I.

Do'st see how unregarded now

That piece of beauty passes?

There was a time when I did vow
To that alone;

But mark the fate of faces;

The red and white works now no more on me, Than if it could not charm, or I not see.

And yet the face continues good,

And I have still desires;

And still the self-same flesh and blood,
As apt to melt,

And suffer from those fires;

O some kind power unriddle where it lies,
Whether my heart be faulty, or her eyes.

She every day her man does kill,
And I as often die;

Neither her power then, nor my will,
Can questioned be;

What is the mystery?

Sure beauty's empires, like to greater states, Have certain periods set, and hidden fates.

SONNET II.

Of thee (kind boy) I ask no red and white,
To make up my delight;

No odd, becoming graces,

Black eyes, or little know-not-whats, in faces: Make me but mad enough, give me good store Of love for her I court,

I ask no more;

"Tis love in love that makes the sport.

There's no such thing as that we beauty call, It is mere cozenage all;

For though some long ago

Liked certain colours, mingled so, and so,
That doth not tie me now from choosing new;
If I a fancy take

To black and blue,

That fancy doth it beauty make.

"Tis not the meat, but 'tis the appetite Makes eating a delight;

And if I like one dish

More than another, that a pheasant is. What in our watches, that in us is found; So to the height and nick

We up be wound,

No matter by what hand, or trick.

SONG.

I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I can not have thine;
For if from your's you will not part,
Why then should'st thou have mine?

Yet now I think on 't, let it lie,
To find it were in vain :
For thou 'st a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?

O Love, where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out;

For when I think I'm best resolved,
I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine;

For I'll believe I have her heart,

As much as she has mine.

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.