Poem by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

* * *

TELL me no more how fair she is,  
 I have no minde to hear  
The story of that distant bliss  
 I never shall come near:  
By sad experience I have found
That her perfection is my wound.  
 
And tell me not how fond I am  
 To tempt a daring Fate,  
From whence no triumph ever came,  
 But to repent too late:
There is some hope ere long I may  
In silence dote my self away.  
 
I ask no pity (Love) from thee,  
 Nor will thy justice blame,  
So that thou wilt not envy me
 The glory of my flame:  
Which crowns my heart when ere it dyes,  
In that it falls her sacrifice.

1. To the Queen at Oxford
2. The Boyes Answer To The Blackmoor
3. To My Dead Friend Ben Johnson
4. To His Friends of Christ-Church upon the Mislike of the Marriage of the Arts Acted at Woodstock
5. Sonnet. Tell me you stars that our affections move

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