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Poem by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester


My Midnight Meditation


Ill busi'd man! why should'st thou take such care
To lengthen out thy life's short calendar?
When ev'ry spectacle thou lookst upon
Presents and acts thy execution.
Each drooping season and each flower doth cry,
'Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must die.

'The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well)
Is just the tolling of thy Passing Bell:
Night is thy Hearse, whose sable Canopy
Covers alike deceased day and thee.
And all those weeping dews which nightly fall,
Are but the tears shed for thy funeral.' 



Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

Poem Theme: Midnight

Henry King, Bishop of Chichester's other poems:
  1. Upon A Table-Book Presented To A Lady
  2. On Two Children Dying Of One Disease, And Buried In One Grave
  3. The Short Wooing
  4. An Elegy Upon The Death Of Mr. Edward Holt
  5. To My Sister Anne King, Who Chid Me In Verse For Being Angry


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