2 мин

Silence A Sonnet

Peace my hearts blab, be ever dumb,

Sorrowes speak loud without a tongue:

And my perplexed thoughts forbear To breath your selves in any ear:

Tis scarce a true or manly grief Which gaddes abroad to find relief.

Was ever stomack that lackt meat Nourisht by what another eat?

Can I bestow it, or will woe Forsake me when I bid it goe?

Then Ile believe a wounded breast May heal by shrift, and purchase rest.

But if imparting it I do Not ease my self, but trouble two, 'Tis better I alone possess My treasure of unhappiness:

Engrossing that which is my own No longer then it is unknown.

If silence be a kind of death,

He kindles grief who gives it breath;

But let it rak't in embers lye,

On thine own hearth 'twill quickly dye;

And spight of fate, that very wombe Which carries it, shall prove its tombe.


Henry King

Henry King (1592 – 30 September 1669) was an English poet who served as Bishop of Chichester.

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