Sir Francis Kynaston (1587–1642)

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 wat’ring 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,

It thou rain down thy showers of woe,

They, like the Sirens’, blast.

Therefore when sorrow shall becloud

Thy fair serenest day,

Weep not, my sighs shall be allowed

To chase the storm away.

Consider that the teeming vine,

If cut by chance do weep,

Doth bear no grapes to make the wine,

But feels eternal sleep.