Poem by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

The Retreat

Pursue no more (my thoughts!) that false unkind,
You may assoon imprison the North-wind;
Or catch the Lightning as it leaps; or reach
The leading billow first ran down the breach;
Or undertake the flying clouds to track
In the same path they yesterday did rack.
Then, like a Torch turn'd downward, let the same
Desire which nourisht it, put out your flame.
Loe thus I doe divorce thee from my brest,
False to thy vow, and traitour to my rest!
Henceforth thy tears shall be (though thou repent)
Like pardons after execution sent.
Nor shalt thou ever my loves story read,
But as some Epitaph of what is dead.
So may my hope on future blessings dwell,
As 'tis my firm resolve and last farewell.

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

Henry Vaughan The Retreat ("Happy those early days, when I")

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