Poem by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

The Forfeiture

My Dearest, To let you or the world know
What Debt of service I do truly ow
To your unpattern'd self, were to require
A language onely form'd in the desire
Of him that writes. It is the common fate,
Of greatest duties to evaporate
In silent meaning, as we often see
Fires by their too much fuel smother'd be:
Small Obligations may find vent and speak,
When greater the unable debtor break.
And such are mine to you, whose favours store,
Hath made me poorer then I was before;
For I want words and language to declare
How strict my Bond or large your bounties are.
Since nothing in my desp'rate fortune found,
Can payment make, nor yet the summe compound
You must lose all, or else of force accept
The body of a Bankrupt for your debt.
Then Love, your Bond to Execution sue,
And take my self, as forfeited to you.

1. The Short Wooing
2. Madam Gabrina, Or The Ill-Favourd Choice
3. Upon A Table-Book Presented To A Lady
4. Sonnet. Go thou that vainly do'st mine eyes invite
5. To the Queen at Oxford

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