Where worth in meanest is rewarded,

And,―to speak briefly in a word,— I think not all the world again

So near resembles Saturn's reign!

HENRY KING

Was born in 1591 at Wornal in Bucks, and educated at Westminster, whence he was elected a student of ChristChurch, Oxford, in 1608. Having taken the degrees in Arts he "became a most florid preacher," says Wood, and successively chaplain to James I. arch-deacon of Colchester, residentiary of St. Paul's, canon of ChristChurch, chaplain to Charles I. doctor of divinity, and dean of Rochester, from which he was advanced to the bishopric of Chichester in 1641, which he held till the time of his death in 1669.

He turned the Psalms into verse (12mo. 1651, and 1654), being disgusted with the old translation, and published in 1657 a small volume of "Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes, and Son"nets." His Elegies are written on the deaths of Gustavus Adolphus, Prince Henry, Sir Walter Raleigh, Dr. Donne, Ben Jonson, and others, more particularly his father, Dr. John King, bishop of London.

His poems are terse and elegant, but, like those of most of his contemporaries, deficient in simplicity.

The Dirge.

WHAT is th'existence of man's life,

But open war, or slumber'd strife;
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements;

And never feels a perfect peace

Till Death's cold hand signs his release?

It is a storm, where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood;
And each loose passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind,

Which beats his bark with many a wave
Till he casts anchor in the

grave.

It is a flower, which buds, and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose;
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleep;
Then shrinks into that fatal mould
Where its first being was enroll❜d.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth
Is moraliz'd in age and youth;
Where all the comforts he can share
As wandering as his fancies are;
Till in a mist of dark decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial, which points out
The sun-set, as it moves about;
And shadows out in lines of night
The subtle stages of time's flight;

Till all-obscuring earth hath laid
The body in perpetual shade.

It is a weary interlude,

Which doth short joys, long woes include;
The world the stage, the prologue tears,
The acts vain hope and varied fears;
The scene shuts up with loss of breath,
And leaves no epilogue but death.

SONNET.

To Patience.

Down! stormy Passions, down! no more Let your rude waves invade the shore Where blushing Reason sits, and hides

Her from the fury of your tides.

Fall, easy Patience, fall, like rest,

Whose soft spells charm a troubled breast!

And where those rebels you espy,

O! in your silken cordage tie

Their malice up! so shall I raise

Altars to thank your power, and praise

The sovereign virtue of your balm,

Which cures a tempest by a calm.

The Surrender.

My once dear love, hapless that I no more
Must call thee so, the rich affection's store
That fed our hopes lies now exhaust and spent,
Like sums of treasure unto bankrupts lent!
We, that did nothing study but the way
To love each other, with which thoughts the day
Rose with delight to us, and with them set,—
Must learn the hateful art, how to forget.
We, that did nothing wish that heaven could give
Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live
Beyond that wish,— all these now cancel must,
As if not writ in faith, but words, and dust.

Yet, witness those clear vows which lovers make!
Witness the chaste desires that never brake
Into unruly hearts! witness that breast
Which in thy bosom anchor'd his whole rest!
'Tis no default in us, I dare acquite
Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white
As thy pure self. Cross planets did envy
Us to each other, and heaven did untie
Faster than vows could bind—

** Like turtle doves

Dislodged from their haunts, we must in tears

Unwind a love knit

up in many years.