Henry King, Bishop of Chichester (Генри Кинг, епископ Чичестерский)

On Two Children Dying Of One Disease, And Buried In One Grave

Brought forth in sorrow, and bred up in care,
Two tender Children here entombed are:
One Place, one Sire, one Womb their being gave,
They had one mortal sickness, and one grave.
And though they cannot number many years
In their Account, yet with their Parents tears
This comfort mingles; Though their dayes were few
They scarcely sinne, but never sorrow knew:
So that they well might boast, they carry'd hence
What riper ages lose, their innocence.
You pretty losses, that revive the fate
Which in your mother death did antedate,
O let my high-swol'n grief distill on you
The saddest drops of a Parentall dew:
You ask no other dower then what my eyes
Lay out on your untimely exequies:
When once I have discharg'd that mournfull skore,
Heav'n hath decreed you ne're shall cost me more,
Since you release and quit my borrow'd trust,
By taking this inheritance of dust. 

1. To the Queen at Oxford
2. The Boyes Answer To The Blackmoor
3. Another Of The Same, Paraphrased For An Antheme
4. Upon A Table-Book Presented To A Lady
5. To His Friends of Christ-Church upon the Mislike of the Marriage of the Arts Acted at Woodstock

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