Poem by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

To My Sister Anne King, Who Chid Me In Verse For Being Angry

Dear Nan, I would not have thy counsel lost,
Though I last night had twice so much been crost;
Well is a Passion to the Market brought,
When such a treasure of advice is bought
With so much dross. And could'st thou me assure,
Each vice of mine should meet with such a cure,
I would sin oft, and on my guilty brow
Wear every misperfection that I ow,
Open and visible; I should not hide
But bring my faults abroad: to hear thee chide
In such a Note, and with a Quill so sage,
It Passion tunes, and calmes a Tempests rage.
Well I am charm'd, and promise to redress
What, without shrift, my follies doe confess
Against my self: wherefore let me intreat,
When I fly out in that distemper'd heat
Which frets me into fasts, thou wilt reprove
That froward spleen in Poetry and Love:
So though I lose my reason in such fits,
Thoul't rime me back again into my wits.

1. Another Of The Same, Paraphrased For An Antheme
2. Psalm I
3. On Two Children Dying Of One Disease, And Buried In One Grave
4. Sonnet. Dry those fair, those chrystal eyes
5. On the Earl of Essex

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