Poem by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

Sonnet. Dry those fair, those chrystal eyes

Dry those fair, those chrystal eyes
Which like growing fountains rise
To drown their banks. Griefs sullen brooks
Would better flow in furrow'd looks.
Thy lovely face was never meant
To be the shoar of discontent.
Then clear those watrish starres again
Which else portend a lasting rain;
Lest the clouds which settle there
Prolong my Winter all the Year:
And the example others make
In love with sorrow for thy sake.

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

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