Poem by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

* * *

TELL me no more how fair she is,  
 I have no minde to hear  
The story of that distant bliss  
 I never shall come near:  
By sad experience I have found
That her perfection is my wound.  
 
And tell me not how fond I am  
 To tempt a daring Fate,  
From whence no triumph ever came,  
 But to repent too late:
There is some hope ere long I may  
In silence dote my self away.  
 
I ask no pity (Love) from thee,  
 Nor will thy justice blame,  
So that thou wilt not envy me
 The glory of my flame:  
Which crowns my heart when ere it dyes,  
In that it falls her sacrifice.

1. To His Friends of Christ-Church upon the Mislike of the Marriage of the Arts Acted at Woodstock
2. To the Queen at Oxford
3. The Short Wooing
4. Madam Gabrina, Or The Ill-Favourd Choice
5. Upon A Table-Book Presented To A Lady

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