To Cynthia An Apologie Poem by Francis Kynaston

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 daye:
Nor to describe thee will I take the paines,
But in the houre when Iove, or Venus raignes.