1 min read
Слушать(AI)My Midnight Meditation
Ill busi'd man! why should'st thou take such care To lengthen out thy life's short calendar?
When ev'ry spectacle thou lookst upon Presents and acts thy execution.
Each drooping season and each flower doth cry, "Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must die. "The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well) Is just the tolling of thy Passing Bell:
Night is thy Hearse, whose sable Canopy Covers alike deceased day and thee.
And all those weeping dews which nightly fall,
Are but the tears shed for thy funeral."
Henry King
Henry King (1592 – 30 September 1669) was an English poet who served as Bishop of Chichester.
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
PARADOX That Fruition destroyes Love
Love is our Reasons Paradox, which still Against the judgment doth maintain the Will: And governs by such arbitrary laws, It onely makes the Act our Likings cause: We have no brave revenge, but to forgo Our full desires, and starve ...
The Exequy
Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, Instead of dirges, this complaint; And for sweet flow'rs to crown thy hearse, From thy griev'd friend, whom thou might'st
SONNET To Patience
Down stormy passions, down; no more Let your rude waves invade the shore Where blushing reason sits and hides Her from the fury of your tides Fit onely 'tis where you bear sway That Fools or Franticks do obey; Since judgment, if it not r...
Tell Me No More How Fair She Is
LL me no more how fair she is, I have no minde to hear The story of that distant bliss I never shall come near: By sad experience I have found That her perfection is my wound And tell me not how fond I am To tempt a daring Fate, From whence n...