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; And never feels a perfect peace Till Death's cold hand signs his release? It is a storm, where the hot blood Which beats his bark with many a wave grave. It is a flower, which buds, and grows, It is a dream, whose seeming truth It is a dial, which points out Till all-obscuring earth hath laid It is a weary interlude, Which doth short joys, long woes include; 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 Yet, witness those clear vows which lovers make! ** Like turtle doves Dislodged from their haunts, we must in tears Unwind a love knit up in many years. |