Poem by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

Being Waked Out Of My Sleep By A Snuff Of Candle Which Offended Me, I Thus Thought:

Perhaps ’twas but conceit. Erroneous sence! 
Thou art thine own distemper and offence. 
Imagine then, that sick unwholsom steam 
Was thy corruption breath’d into a dream. 
Nor is it strange, when we in charnells dwell, 
That all our thoughts of earth and frailty smell. 
Man is a Candle, whose unhappy light 
Burns in the day, and smothers in the night. 
And as you see the dying taper waste, 
By such degrees does he to darkness haste.
Here is the diff’rence: When our bodies lamps 
Blinded by age, or choakt with mortall damps, 
Now faint and dim and sickly ’gin to wink, 
And in their hollow sockets lowly sink; 
When all our vital fires ceasing to burn, 
Leave nought but snuff and ashes in our Urn: 
God will restore those fallen lights again, 
And kindle them to an Eternal flame. 

1. To My Sister Anne King, Who Chid Me In Verse For Being Angry
2. To His Friends of Christ-Church upon the Mislike of the Marriage of the Arts Acted at Woodstock
3. The Vow-Breaker
4. Another Of The Same, Paraphrased For An Antheme
5. Madam Gabrina, Or The Ill-Favourd Choice

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