University of Virginia Library

CYNTHIADES:

OR, Amorous Sonets:

On her faire Eyes.

To Cynthia,

On a Mistresse for his Rivals.

Can I not have a Mistresse of my owne,
But that as soone as ever it is knowne
That she is mine, both he, and he, and he
Will court my Cynthia, and my Rivals be:
The cause of this is easily understood,
It is because (my Cynthia) thou art good,
And they desire, cause thou art good, and woman,
To make thee better, by making thee common.
Well, I do thanke them: but since thou canst be
No subject fit for this their charity,
As being too narrow and too small a bit
To feed so many mouths, know I will fit
Their palates with a mistresse, which I'le get,
The like whereof was never seene as yet:
For I for their sakes will a mistresse choose,
As never had a mayden-head to loose,
Or if she had, it was so timely gone,
She never could remember she had one.
She by antiquity, and her vile face
Of all whores els and bawds shall have the place;
One whose all parts, her nose, eyes, foot, and hand,
Shall so farre out of all proportion stand,
As it by Symmetry shall not be guest,
By any one, the feature of the rest.
She shall have such a face, I do intend,
As painting, nor yet carving, shall not mend:
A Bare anotomiz'd unburied coarse
Shall not more ghastly looke, nor yet stinke worse:
For at the generall resurrection
She shall lay claime to hell as to her owne
Inheritance and fee, for it is meant,
She comes not there by purchase, but descent:
One whose sins were they to be reckoned
By number of the haires upon her head,
There were but two to answer for at most,
One being the sinne against the holy Ghost.
And if a Physiognomer should eie,
And judge by rules of Metaposcopie,
Of vices and conditions of her minde,
He, as a face hid with the small pox should finde
As there one ulcer, so, but one vice there,
Spreading the whole, and that is every where:
Yet shall she have so many vices sow'd
In every limme, as paines shall be bestow'd
By Scholers and Logitians, to invent
A larger, and a wider predicament,
To comprehend her Cardinall vices all,
Which under no one Notion can fall.
Her shape shall be like th' earth, so round and rude,
As the beginning of her longitude
To finde, and to set downe, men shall be faine
T'importune the Popes judgement once againe:
Her cheekes and buttocks shall so neere agree
In shape and semblance, they shall seeme to bee
Twins by their likenesse, nor shall it be eath
To know, which is which by their fulsome breath:
When Palmisters, or Gypsies shall but looke
Upon her palme, they'le thinke they have mistooke,
And say they see some Cripples wither'd hand,
Or Mummy, stolne from Egypts partched sand,
And lastly, when she dyes, If some device
Make her not durt, her dust being turn'd to lice,
Shall make graves louzy, and dead bodies, which
Lie neere her, to be troubled with the Itch,
Which shall exceed the Lice in Egypt bred,
Which onely plagu'd the living, these the dead.
She shall be rottener than last Autumnes peares,
And more contagious than two plaguy yeares.
The Colledge of Physitians shall not
'Gainst her infection make an Antidote.
This Mistresse will I have, rather than one
Whom I may not enjoy my selfe alone:
And such a one I'le hate as faithfully,
As (dearest Cynthia) I have loved thee.

To Cynthia.

On her being an Incendiary.

Say (sweetest) whether thou didst use me well,
If when in my hearts house I let thee dwell
A welcome Inmate, and did not require
More than a kisse a day, for rent or hire:
Thou wert not onely pleas'd to stop the rent,
But most ungratefull, burnt the Tenement:
Henceforth it will ensue, that thou didst carry
The branded name of an Incendiary:
No heart will harbour thee, and thou, like poore
As I, may'st lodging beg from doore to doore.
If it be so, my ready course will be
To get a Licence, and re-edifie
My wasted heart. If Cupid shall inquire,
By what mishap my heart was set on fire;
I'le say, my happy fortune was to get
Thy beauties crop, which being greene and wet
With shores of teares, I did to hasty in,
Before that throughly withered it had bin:
So heating in the mowe it soone became
At first a smoke, and afterwards a flame:
At this Loves little King will much admire,
How cold and wet cojoyn'd can cause a fire
Having no heat themselves, but I do know
What he will say, for he will bid me go,
And build my heart of stone; so shall I bee
Safe from the lightning of thine eies, and thee,
The cold, and hardnesse of stone hearts, best serving
For coy greene beauties, and them best preserving,
Yet here is danger; for if thou be in't
My heart to stone, and thine harder then flint,
Knocking together may strike fire, and set
Much more on fire, then hath bin burned yet
If so it hap, then let those flames calcine
My heart to Cinders, so it soften thine:
A heart, which untill then doth serve the turne
To enflame others, but it selfe not burne.

To Cynthia.

On concealement of her beauty.

To Cynthia.

On her Embraces.

If thou a reason dost desire to know,
My (dearest Cynthia) why I love thee so,
As when I do enjoy all the loves store,
I am not yet content, but seeke for more;
When we do kisse so often as the tale
Of kisses doth out-vie the winters haile:
When I do print them on more close and sweet
Than shels of Scalops, Cockles when they meet,
Yet am not satisfied: when I do close
Thee nerer to me then the Ivy growes
Unto the Oke: when those white armes of thine
Clip me more close than doth the Elme the Vine:
When naked both, thou seemest not to bee
Contiguous, but continuous parts of mee:
And wee in bodies are together brought
So neere, our soules may know each others thought
Without a whisper: yet I do aspire
To come more close to thee, and to be nigher:
Know, 'twas well say'd, that spirits are too high
For bodies, when they meet to satisfie;
Our soules having like formes of light and sence,
Proceeding from the same intelligence,
Desire to mixe like to two water drops,
Whose union some little hindrance stops,
Which meeting both together would be one.
For in the steele, and in the Adamant stone,
One and the same Magneticke soule is cause,
That with such unseene chaines each other drawes:
So our soules now divided, brook't not well,
That beeing one, they should asunder dwell.
Then let me die, that so my soule beeing free,
May joyne with that her other halfe in thee,
For when in thy pure selfe it shall abide,
It shall assume a body glorified,
Beeing in that high blisse; nor shall we twaine
Or wish to meet, or feare to part againe.

To Cynthia.

On a Kisse.

Beeing thy servant Cynthia, 'tis my duty
To make thy name as glorious as thy beauty.
Of which things may be writ farre more and high,
Then are of Starrs in all Astronomie,
Nay naturall Philosophy, that containes
Each thing that in the Universe remaines;
Nor more, nor such materials affords,
Could we for the expression finde but words.
But surely of thy kindenesse I'me afraid,
Or bounty very little can be say'd:
A page in Decimo sexto will suffice
For them, which if one should Epitomise
Like an Arithmetitian, that hath wrought,
And hath a unite to a cipher brought,
He certenly no other thing should do
Then cleave a Geometricall point in two.
Thy bounty on a halfe peny may be set,
And they that serve thee, sure do nothing get:
For when thy faithfull servants wages is,
No more from thee then quarterly a kisse,
Penurious thou unjustly dost detaine
His Salarie so long, that he is faine,
(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 owne, but violence, or theft:
And therefore Cynthia, as a Turquois bought,
Or stolne, or found, is vertules, and nought.
It must be freely given by a friend,
Whose love and bounty doth such vertue lend,
As makes it to compassionate, and tell
By looking pale, the wearer is not well.
So one kisse given shall content me more,
Then if that I had taken halfe a score:
Thy Rubie lips like Turquoises, ne're shall
By giving kisses waxe, or dry, or pale.

To Cynthia.

On seeing and touching.

To Cynthia.

On her looking glasse.

Give me leave (fairest Cynthia) to envy
Thy looking glasse farre happyer then I,
To which thy naked beauties every morne
Thou shewest so freely, while thou dost adorne
Thy richer haire with gems, and neatly decke
With orientall pearle thy whiter necke,
Which take the species of thy naked brest,
So white, I doubt if it can be exprest
By the reflection of the purest glasse,
Which Swans, Snowes, Cerusces doth to surpasse,
As in comparison of it, these may
Rather than white, be termed hoare, or gray:
Besides, all whites but thine may take a spot,
Thine, the first matter of all whites, cannot:
May be thou trusts thy glasses secrecy
With dainties, yet unseene by any eye:
All these thy favours I will well allow
Unto my rivall glasse; but so, that thou
Wilt not permit it justly to reflect
Thy eye upon it selfe: I shall suspect,
And jealous grow, that such reflex may move
Thee (faire Narcissus like) to fall in love
With thine owne beauties shadow: Loves sharpe dart
Shot 'gainst a stone may bound, and wound thy heart:
Which if it should, alas how sure were I
To be past hope, and then past remedy.
This to prevent, may'st thou when thou dost rise,
Vouchsafe to dresse thy beauties in my eyes,
If these shall be to small, may for thy sake,
Hypocondriacke melancholy make
My body all of glasse, all which shall bee
So made, and so constellated by thee,
That as in Christall Mirroirs many a spot
Is by infection of a looke begot:
This glasse of thine if thou but frowne, shall flye
In thousand shivers broken by thine eye:
Since then it hath this sympathy with thee,
Let me not languish in a jealousie,
To thinke this wonder may be brought to passe,
Thy faire lookes may inanimate thy glasse,
And make it my competitor 'tis all one
To give life to a glasse, as make me stone.

To Cynthia.

On expressions of love.

Must I beleeve (sweet Cynthia) that the flame
Hath light, and heat had I ne're felt the same?
Must I beleeve the cold and hardest flint,
Had I ne're known't had fiery sparckles in't?
Must I beleeve the Load-stone e're did drawe
The steele, when such a thing I never saw?
Must I turne Papist by implicit faith,
To beleeve that, which thou, or woman saith?
Thou sayest thou lov'st me, but thou dost not show
Any, the smallest signe that it is so:
All emanations of thy soule thou keep'st
Retir'd within thy brest, as when thou sleep'st
True love is not a meere intelligence
That's Metaphysicall, for every sence
Must see and judge of it; I must avow,
That sencelesse things are kinder farre then thou:
Thou neither wilt embrace, nor kisse; thy hand
(Unlesse I kisse it) doth each touch withstand:
Learne therefore of the flame not to professe
Thou lov'st, unlesse thou love in act expresse:
Learne of the flint which beeing once calcin'd,
Becomes a white soft Cement, that will binde:
Learne of the Load-stone, let it teach thy heart
Not onely to draw lovers, but impart
Thy favours to them, let thy servants feele
Thy love, who are more sencible then steele.

To Cynthia.

To Cynthia.

An Apologie.

Expect not (lovely Cynthia) yet from me
Lines like thy fairest selfe, so cleere, so free
From any blemish, for what now I write,
Is like a picture done in a dim light,
A night piece, for my soule is overcast,
As is a Mirrour with a humid blast,
Or breathing on it: and a misty cloud,
Thy beauties brightnesse in a vaile doth shrowde.
These lines of mine are onely to be read
To make thee drouzy when thou go'st to bed,
For the long gloomy darke, and clouded skie;
That the Suns brightnesse to us doth deny,
Darkenesse all soules, and damps all humane sence,
That to his light hath any reference,
And quenches so those hot and amorous flames,
That would have made the water of the Thames
Burne like Canary-Sacke, more dull, and cold,
Then 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 ayre,
Produce lines like thy selfe, serene and faire:
Meane time imagine that Newcastle coles,
Which as (Sir Inego sayth) have perisht Paules,
And by the skill of Marquis would-be Iones,
'Tis found the smoakes salt did corrupt the stones:
Thinke thou I am in London where I have
No intermission, but to bee a slave
To other mens affaires more then my owne,
And have no leasure for to bee alone:
Yet (dearest Cynthia) thinke thus much of me,
By night I do both thinke, and dreame of thee,
And that which I shall write in thy high praise,
Shall be the worke of faire, and Sun-shine dayes:
Nor to describe thee will I take the paines,
But in the houre when Iove, or Venus raignes.

To Cynthia.

To Cynthia.

On his being one with her.

When pure refined Gold is made in Coine,
And Silver is put to't as the allay,
Unlesse they both do melt, they will not joyne,
There being to mixe them both no other way;
So barres of iron in like kinde will not
Be piec'd together, nor be made in one,
Unlesse they both be made alike red hot:
Then joyne they as they had together growne.
By this I finde, there is no hope for me,
Ever to be united as a part
Of thy sweet selfe, or to be mixt with thee:
Brest joyn'd to brest, and heart commix'd with heart,
For that thy hard congeal'd and snow white brest
Cold as the North, that sends forth frosty weather,
And mine with flames of love warme as the West,
Will ne're admit that wee should ly together:
Unlesse my teares like showres of April raine,
Do thaw thy Ice to water backe againe:
Or else unlesse my naked breasts being laid
On thine, and alike cold, it may be said,
Of both our bosomes being joyned so,
That Alabaster frozen was in snow;
That so what heat together could not hold,
Should be combin'd, and made one by the cold.

To Cynthia.

On Sugar and her sweetnesse.

Those (Cynthia) that do taste the honey-dew,
Of thy moist rosie lips, (who are but few)
Or sucke the vapour of thy breath more sweet
Than Honisuckles juyce, they all agree't,
To be Mederaes Sugars quintessence,
Or some diviner sirrop brought from thence,
And for the operation, they beleeve,
It hath a quality provocative:
For Venus in the Sugars propagation
Is said to have a soveraigne domination:
But I must not thinke so, for I have read,
Of an extracted Sugar out of Lead,
Of which I once did taste, which Chymists call,
Sugar of Saturne, for they therewithall
Cure all venereall heates, for it doth hold
A winter in it like that Planets cold,
And though't be strangely sweet, yet doth it quench
All courage towards a Mistris or a wench:
Such must I thinke thy sweetnesse for to be,
By that experience that is found in me:
For he that shall those sweets of thine but taste,
Shall like thy selfe become, as cold, as chaste:
For like the Mildew new fallen from the skie,
Though dropt from Heaven, yet doth it mortifie.

To Cynthia.

On her coynesse.

What sweetnesse is in fruits, in Nectorine,
Peach, cherry, apricocke, those lips of thine,
Cynthia expresse: what colors grace the rose,
The Jessamine, the lilly, pinke, all those,
Whether it be in colours, or in smels,
Are emblems of thy body, which excels
All flowers in purity, but can we finde
A flower, or herbe an emblem of thy minde?
Yes the coy shame-fac'd plant Pudefetan,
Which is endu'd with sense, for if a man
Come near the female, and his finger put
Upon her leafe, she instantly will shut
Close all her branches, as she did disdain
The handling of a man, and spread again
Her leaves abroad, when as a man is gone,
And she is in her earthy bed alone:
This Indian plant a man may well suppose,
Within the garden of thy bosome growes,
Which though it be invisible hath such
A property, to make thee flie my tuch:
And sure the plant hath such a sympathy,
As that it will not close her leaves to thee;
And if thou comm'st, her selfe she will not hide,
But will (more nice than she) thy touch abide.

To Cynthia.

On a short visit.

Giving thee once a visit of respect,
Because I some affaires could not neglect,
Which much concern'd me, brooking no delay,
I onely kist thine hand, and went away:
How aptly Cynthia didst thou then inquire,
Whether I came to thee but to fetch fire:
It was too true, for yet I never came
To visit thee, but I did fetch a flame,
Religious fire, which kindled by thine eyes,
Still made my heart thy beauties sacrifice;
But though I like Prometheus never stole
Cœlestiall fire to give a living soul
To any earthen statue, stone, yet he
More mercy findes from Iove, than I from thee;
Though he to Caucasus be bound for ever,
A ravenous vulture tyring on his liver,
His pain is not augmented, but the same,
But mine like Vestaes never-dying flame,
Although to burne my heart it never cease,
Like oyl of gold yet it doth still increase
An everlasting lampe, for fires that come
From heaven still do burne, but not consume.

To Cynthia.

On verses on her.

There is no sense, that I should write a line
On such a beauty (Cynthia) as thine;
I am no Poet, and it is in vain,
Since thou exceed'st all worth, to strive to fain:
On my poor lines the Thespian well ne're dropt,
From me the fount of Helicon is stopt:
I ne're was so ill bred as to invoke
Apollo, and to sacrifice with smoke
Of coales, or billets, nor yet am I able,
In the west-end of Cardinall Wolsey's stable,
To keep a Pegasus, a horse that might
Advance my muse by his swift nimble flight:
Yet like a man opprest with grief and cares,
Law-suits, and troubles, so with me it fares:
If he but take a lusty joviall drinke,
Forgets all sorrowes, so if I but thinke
On thee, or thy chaste beauty, then my chear
Is chang'd, no clouds do in my soul appear;
Thy rare divinest beauty so expels
With joyes the horror of ten thousand hels.

To Cynthia.

On a parting kisse.

So would a soul, if that it did but know
(Being form'd in heaven) how that it was to go
To a darke wombe on earth from heavenly blisse,
Regreet, as I do at our parting kisse;
For when I part from thee, though the delight
Of the kisse is a Sun-beam before night;
Yet I much better should endure the pain,
Were I but sure that we should kisse again;
But being uncertain, like a soul in fear,
Whether it shall returne to the same Sphere,
Or star, or house cœlestiall, whence it came:
My Cynthia, Beauties queen, thou canst not blame
My fear, nor my credulity in this,
If I considering of our parting kisse,
Shall straight affirme that on thy lip doth dwell
At once a heavenly pleasure, and a hell;
For in our kisse is blisse without dimension,
And in our parting grief, beyond extension:
O do me then the favour done to those,
Die on the Blocke, to whom the headsman showes,
Nor sword, nor axe, nor doth the Traitor know,
When he will strike, untill he feel the blow:
Use me then so, let's kisse so oft, so fast,
I may not know, which kisse shall be my last.

To Cynthia.

On his absence from her.

Till now I doubted whether love, or sight
Of thy dear beauties (Cynthia) did invite
My hand to write, or did beget a line,
That did expresse my heart was wholy thine:
But now I am resolv'd, 'twas not thy face,
Thy lovely shape, or any outward grace
Mov'd me to write, for if that those had been
The cause, they must have oftentimes been seen;
Else my long absence, like a spunge would blot
Those beauties, which not seen, would be forgot:
But thy rare parts of minde, which I adore,
Once seen, that's understood, they need no more;
Or new, or frequent visits to repair
My memory, or make thee a fresh fair:
No absence from thee shall have the effect,
As make me not to love, or not respect:
Visits are needles, since they onely be
Subjects of fooles discourse, or jealousie:
Then thinke me like to those are us'd to talke
When they are fast asleep, who rise and walke,
As well as if they wak'd, do all things right,
As if they us'd their eyes, or had a light:
Even so will I turne dreamer, and desire
Nor sight, nor light, but loves internall fire,
So thou (although no object of my sense)
Shalt be the subject of Loves innocence.

To Cynthia.

On his Love after death.

To Cynthia.

On her changing.

To Cynthia.

On her resemblance.

To Cynthia.

On her mothers decease.

To Cynthia.

Wonder not Cynthia, thou who art
Thy selfe a wonder, whose each part
Kindles so many amorous flames,
That Love wants numbers, Beauty names,
If I that with so much respect,
Honour, admire, love, and affect
Thy graces, as no soul can more,
Yet willing starve in midst of store,
When as by tying Hymens knot,
All thy perfections may be got:
And I to those high pleasures rais'd,
As to enjoy all I have prais'd:
Know Cynthia, that Loves purest fire,
Burnes not in act, but in desire:
Which while it lasts thou mayst be sure,
My love unsatisfied is pure:
Thou doest not know, if I enjoy'd
Thy beauties, if I might be cloy'd:
More, all the while I nought enjoy,
I do not care if thou be coy:
Nor, if that lying by my side,
Thy virgin Cystern be untide:
For Cynthia thou it true shalt prove,
Hymen not makes, but seales our love.