Poem by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester

Sonnet. Tell me you stars that our affections move

Tell me you stars that our affections move,
Why made ye me that cruell one to love?
Why burnes my heart her scorned sacrifice,
Whose breast is hard as Chrystall, cold as Ice?
God of Desire! if all thy Votaries
Thou thus repay, succession will grow wise;
No sighs for incense at thy Shrine shall smoke,
Thy Rites will be despis'd, thy Altars broke.
O! or give her my flame to melt that snow
Which yet unthaw'd does on her bosome grow;
Or make me ice, and with her chrystall chaines
Binde up all love within my frozen veines.

1. To the Queen at Oxford
2. On Two Children Dying Of One Disease, And Buried In One Grave
3. The Boyes Answer To The Blackmoor
4. Another Of The Same, Paraphrased For An Antheme
5. Upon A Table-Book Presented To A Lady

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