Poem by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

Sonnet. I Prethee Turn That Face Away

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 things. To me
That blessing is a miserie:
Whom thy fierce Sun not warmes, but burnes,
Like that the sooty Indian turnes.
Ile serve the night, and there confin'd
Wish thee less fair, or else more kind. 

1. The Boyes Answer To The Blackmoor
2. Sonnet. Go thou that vainly do'st mine eyes invite
3. To His Friends of Christ-Church upon the Mislike of the Marriage of the Arts Acted at Woodstock
4. To My Sister Anne King, Who Chid Me In Verse For Being Angry
5. Madam Gabrina, Or The Ill-Favourd Choice

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