Henry King

Fair one, why cannot you an old man love
He may as useful, and more constant prove
Experience shews you that maturer years Are a security against those fears Youth will expose you to; whose wild desire As it is hot, so 'tis as rash as fi...

I know no fitter subject for your view Then this, a meditation ripe for you,
As you for it
Which when you read you'l see What kind of wife your self will one day bee:
Which happy day be neer you, and may this Remain with you as earn...

Essex twice made unhappy by a Wife,
Yet Marry'd worse unto the Peoples strife:
He who by two Divorces did untie His Bond of Wedlock and of Loyalty:
Who was by Easiness of Nature bred,

Fair one, you did on me bestow Comparisons too sweet to ow;
And but I found them sent from you I durst not think they could be true
But 'tis your uncontrolled power Goddess-like to produce a flower,
And by your breath, without more ...

Vhat is th' Existence of Mans life
But open war, or slumber'd strife
Where sickness to his sense presents The combat of the Elements:
And never feels a perfect Peace Till deaths cold hand signs his release

Since thou hast view'd some Gorgon, and art grown A solid stone:
To bring again to softness thy hard heart Is past my art
Ice may relent to water in a thaw;
But stone made flesh Loves Chymistry ne're saw

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 ...

Con mala Muger el remedio Mucha Tierra por el medio
I have oft wondred why thou didst elect Thy Mistress of a stuff none could affect,
That wore his eyes in the right place
A thing Made up, when Natures powers lay slumbering

Now that each feather'd Chorister doth sing The glad approches of the welcome Spring:
Now Phœbus darts forth his more early beam,
And dips it later in the curled stream,
I should to custome prove a retrograde Did I still dote upon m...

I see that wreath which doth the wearer arm 'Gainst the quick strokes of thunder, is no charm To keep off deaths pale dart
For,
Johnson then Thou hadst been number'd still with living men
Times sithe had fear'd thy Lawrel to invade,

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

I prethee turn that face away Whose splendour but benights my day
Sad eyes like mine, and wounded hearts Shun the bright rayes which beauty darts
Unwelcome is the Sun that pries Into those shades where sorrow lies
Go shine on happy ...

O all ye Nations record,
The Praises of the Lord;
Ye people through the Universe,
Your Makers praise rehearse

To have liv'd eminent in a degreee Beyond our lofty'st flights, that is like thee;
Or t'have had too much merit is not safe;
For such excesses find no Epitaph
At common graves we have Poetick eyes Can melt themselves in easie Elegies;

Vere I to leave no more then a good friend,
Or but to hear the summons to my end, (Which I have long'd for) I could then with ease Attire my grief in words, and so appease That passion in my bosom, which outgrowes The language of strict verse...

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