To such a place our camp remove, I hate a fool that starves her love, SONG. Out upon it! I have loved Time shalt moult away his wings, In the whole wide world again, But the spite on't is, no praise Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this SONNET I. Do'st see how unregarded now That piece of beauty passes? There was a time when I did vow 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, And suffer from those fires; O some kind power unriddle where it lies, She every day her man does kill, Neither her power then, nor my will, 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, 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, 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, Yet now I think on 't, let it lie, Why should two hearts in one breast lie, O Love, where is thy sympathy, But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved, Then farewell care, and farewell woe, 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 Do not thou so, not being sure May crop thy beauty's lovely flowers, 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 Let not grief make thee pine. Think that the lily, we behold, Flourish, although the mother mould There is no cause, nor yet no sense, |