HENRY KING
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. Stay for me there: I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale. And think not much of my delay: I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed. Each minute is a short degree And every hour a step towards thee. . . .
'Tis true with shame and grief 1 yield- Thou, like the van, first took'st the field; And gotten hast the victory In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave A just precedence in the grave. But hark' my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come; And slow howe'er my marches be I shall at last sit down by thee.
The thought of this bids me go on And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear forgive The crime I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part.
�� �
