HENRY KING

Be so much blest as to descry

A glimpse of thee, till that day come

Which shall the earth to cinders doom,

And a fierce fever must calcine

The body of this world like thine,

My little world ! That fit of fire

Once off, our bodies shall aspire

To our souls' bliss : then we shall rise

And view ourselves with clearer eyes

In that calm region where no night

Can hide us from each other's sight.

Meantime thou hast her, earth : much good May my harm do thee ! Since it stood With Heaven's will I might not call Her longer mine, I give thee all My short-lived right and interest In her whom living I loved best. Be kind to her, and prithee look Thou write into thy Doomsday book Each parcel of this rarity Which in thy casket shrined doth lie, As thou wilt answer Him that lent Not gave thee my dear monument. So close the ground, and 'bout her shade Black curtains draw : my bride is laid. Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted ! My last good-night ! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake : Till age, or grief, or sickness must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves; and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.

�� �