SIR FRANCIS KINASTON,

Author of "Leoline and Sydanis," with "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 Museum 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 also who "by experience falsified the alchymists' report, that a hen "being fed for certain days with gold, beginning when Sol "was in Leo, should be converted into gold, and should

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lay golden eggs; but indeed became very fat."

To Cynthia, on concealment of her beauty.

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.

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

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 wo,
They like the Syrens blast.

Therefore, when sorrow shall becloud

Thy fair serenest day,

Weep not! my sighs shall be allow'd

To chase the storm away.

THOMAS BEEDOME

Was the author of "Poems Divine and Humane," 12mo. London, 1641 (with an address to the reader, signed " Hen. "Glapthorne," as well as Latin and English verses by the same). 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, appears that Beedome died very young.

it

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 not thou 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,

Showing, like some stale monument,

A scalp departed from its hair;

At thyself frighted, wilt not start, and swear
That I belied thee when I call'd thee fair?

Yes, yes, I know thou wilt; and so

Pity the weakness of thy scorn,
That now hath humbled thee to know,
Though fair it was, it is forlorn.

Love's sweets thy aged corpse embalming not,
What marvel if thy carcase' beauty rot?

Then shall I live; and live to be
Thy envy, thou my pity: say
Whene'er thou see me, or I thee,

(Being nighted from thy beauty's day)
""Tis he! and had my pride not wither'd me,
"I had, perhaps, been still as fresh as he."

Then shall I smile, and answer, "True; thy scorn Left thee thus wrinkled, slackt, corrupt, forlorn."