With holy reverence inspir'd,

When first the day renews its light,

The earth, at so divine a sight,
Seems as if all one altar fir'd,
Reeking with perfumes to the skies,
Which she presents, her native sacrifice.

The humble shepherd, to his rays

Having his rustic homage paid,

And to some cool retired shade
Driven his bleating flocks to graze,
Sits down, delighted with the sight
Of that great lamp, so mild, so fair, so bright.

The bee through flowery gardens goes,

Buzzing, to drink the morning's tears,

And from the early lily bears
A kiss commended to the rose,
And, like a wary messenger,
Whispers some amorous story in her ear.*

&c. &c. &c.

The remainder of this poem would now be thought forced and unnatural,


Author of " Leoline and Sydanis," and “ Cynthiades," 1641,

son of Sir Edward Kinaston, knt. of Otely in Shropshire, became gentleman-commoner of Oriel College, 1601, took his master's degree in Cambridge, and returned to Oxford 1611. Thence he went to Court, was knighted in 1618, and afterwards made esquire of the body of Charles I. He was the first regent of the academy called the Musæum Minervæ, 1635. He printed this year two books of a Latin translation of Chaucer's Troilus and Cresseid; and died 1642, or thereabouts, says Wood, who adds: “ This is the person who

by experience falsified the alchymist's report, that a hen being fed for certain days with gold, beginning when Sol

was in Leo, should be converted into gold, and should lay golden eggs; but indeed became very fat."

Do not conceal thy radiant eyes,
The star-light of serenest skies;
Lest, wanting of their heavenly light,
They turn to chaos' endless night!

Do not conceal those tresses fair,
The silken snares of thy curl'd hair;
Lest, finding neither gold nor ore,
The curious silk-worm work no more!

Do not conceal those breasts of thine,
More snow-white than the apennine;
Lest, if there be like cold and frost,
The lily be for ever lost !

Do not conceal that fragrant scent,
Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent
Perfumes ; lest, it being supprest,
No spices grow in all the east!

Do not conceal thy heavenly voice,
Which makes the hearts of gods rejoice;
Lest, music hearing no such thing,
The nightingale forget to sing !

Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse,
Thy pearly teeth with coral lips;
Lest, that the seas cease to bring forth
Gems which from thee have all their worth!

Do not conceal no beauty, grace,
That's either in thy mind or face;
Lest virtue overcome by vice.
Make men believe no paradise.


APRIL is past! then do not shed,

Nor do not waste in vain, Upon thy mother's earthy bed,

Thy tears of silver rain.

Thou canst not hope that her cold earth

By watering will bring forth
A flower like thee, or will give birth

To one of the like worth.

"Tis true the rain fall’n from the sky,

Or from the clouded air,
Doth make the earth to fructify,

And makes the heaven more fair.

With thy dear face it is not so,

Which if once overcast,
If thou rain down thy showers of woe,

They like the Syrens blast.

Therefore, when sorrow shall becloud

Thy fair serenest day,
Weep not ! my sighs shall be allow'd

To chace the storm away.

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Author of “ Poems divine and humane,” (London, 1641) a

very scarce little volume. These posthumous poems contain many good lines, but in general wretchedly marred by extravagant conceits. The following is, perhaps, the

least faulty specimen. From the numerous complimentary verses by contemporary

wits, which, according to the custom of the times, usher in the author and his productions with hyperbolical praise, it appears that Beedome died very young.


When the sad ruin of that face

In its own wrinkles buried lies, And the stiff pride of all its grace,

By time undone falls slack, and dies; Wilt thou not sigh, and wish, in some vex'd fit, That it were now as when I courted it?

And when thy glass shall it present

Without those smiles which once were there, Shewing, like some stale monument,

A scalp departed from its hair ;

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