Poem by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

To a Lady Who Sent me a Copy of Verses at my Going to Bed

Lady your art or wit could nere devise
To shame me more then in this nights surprise.
Why I am quite unready, and my eye
Now winking like my candle, doth deny
To guide my hand, if it had ought to write;
Nor can I make my drowsie sense indite
Which by your verses musick (as a spell
Sent from the Sybellean Oracle)
Is charm'd and bound in wonder and delight,
Faster then all the leaden chains of night.
What pity is it then you should so ill
Employ the bounty of your flowing quill,
As to expend on him your bedward thought,
Who can acknowledge that large love in nought
But this lean wish; that fate soon send you those
Who may requite your rhimes with midnight prose?
Mean time, may all delights and pleasing Theams
Like Masquers revell in your Maiden dreams,
Whil'st dull to write, and to do more unmeet,
I, as the night invites me, fall asleep.

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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