Poem by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

To One That Demaunded Why The Wine Sparkles

Wee doe not give the wine a sparkling name 
As if wee meant those sparkes emply’d a flame; 
The flame lyes in our bloud: And ’tis desire 
Fed by loose appetite setts us on fire. 
He that drinks wine for health, nor for excess, 
Nor drownes his temper in a drunkenness, 
Shall feel no more the wines unruly fate, 
Then in he dranke some chilling Opiate.

1. The Pink
2. To My Sister Anne King, Who Chid Me In Verse For Being Angry
3. On Two Children Dying Of One Disease, And Buried In One Grave
4. Sonnet. Dry those fair, those chrystal eyes
5. Sonnet. I Prethee Turn That Face Away

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