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With holy reverence inspir'd,
When first the day renews its light,
The earth, at so divine a sight,
The humble shepherd, to his rays
Having his rustic homage paid,
And to some cool retired shade
The bee through flowery gardens goes,
Buzzing, to drink the morning's tears,
And from the early lily bears
&c. &c. &c.
The remainder of this poem would now be thought forced and unnatural,
SIR FRANCIS KINASTON,
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,
Do not conceal those tresses fair,
Do not conceal those breasts of thine,
Do not conceal that fragrant scent,
Do not conceal thy heavenly voice,
Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse,
Do not conceal no beauty, grace,
TO CYNTHIA, ON HER MOTHER'S DECEASE.
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
To one of the like worth.
"Tis true the rain fall’n from the sky,
Or from the clouded air,
And makes the heaven more fair.
With thy dear face it is not so,
Which if once overcast,
They like the Syrens blast.
Therefore, when sorrow shall becloud
Thy fair serenest day,
To chace the storm away.
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.
THE QUESTION AND ANSWER.
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 ;