Henry King Poems

Perhaps 'twas but conceit. Erroneous sence!
Thou art thine own distemper and offence.
Imagine then, that sick unwholsom steam
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So soon grown old! hast thou been six years dead?
Poor earth, once by my Love inhabited!
And must I live to calculate the time
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Fond Lunatick forbear, why do'st thou sue
For thy affections pay e're it is due?
Loves fruits are legal use; and therefore may
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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:
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I have oft wondred why thou didst elect
Thy Mistress of a stuff none could affect,
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I envy not thy mortal triumphs, Death,
(Thou enemy to Vertue as to Breath)
Nor do I wonder much, nor yet complain
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My best of friends! what needs a chain to tie
One by your merit bound a Votarie?
Think you I have some plot upon my peace,
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Sad Relick of a blessed Soul! whose trust
We sealed up in this religious dust.
O do not thy low Exequies suspect
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VVhether thy Fathers, or diseases rage,
More mortal prov'd to thy unhappy age,
Our sorrow needs not question; since the first
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At this glad Triumph, when most Poets use
Their quill, I did not bridle up my Muse
For sloth or less devotion. I am one
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