Henry King, Bishop of Chichester (Генри Кинг, епископ Чичестерский)

The Pink

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 seed,
Make that a Pink which was a Weed.
Because I would be loth to miss
So sweet a Metamorphosis,
Upon what stalk soere I grow
Disdain not you sometimes to blow
And cherish by your Virgin eye
What in your frown would droop and die:
So shall my thankful leaf repay
Perfumed wishes every day:
And o're your fortune breathe a spell
Which may his obligation tell,
Who though he nought but air can give
Must ever your (Sweet) creature live. 

1. The Boyes Answer To The Blackmoor
2. To the Queen at Oxford
3. On Two Children Dying Of One Disease, And Buried In One Grave
4. Upon A Table-Book Presented To A Lady
5. To His Friends of Christ-Church upon the Mislike of the Marriage of the Arts Acted at Woodstock

Распечатать стихотворение (Poem to print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 772

Последние стихотворения

To English version