We must in tears
Unwind a love knit up in many years.
In this last kiss I here surrender thee
Back to thyself, so thou again art free;
Thou in another, sad as that, resend
The truest heart that lover e'er did lend.

(Henry King (1592-1669), British Bishop of Chichester. The Surrender (l. 29-34). . . Everyman's Book of English Verse. John Wain, ed. (1981) J. M. Dent & Sons Ltd.)

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.

(Henry King (1592-1669), British Bishop of Chichester. The Exequy (l. 55-60). . . New Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1950. Helen Gardner, ed. (1972) Oxford University Press.)

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.

(Henry King (1592-1669), British Bishop of Chichester. The Exequy (l. 55-60). . . New Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1950. Helen Gardner, ed. (1972) Oxford University Press.)

Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to night.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The spring entombed in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot;
The flight is past: and man forgot.

(Henry King (1592-1669), British Bishop of Chichester. Sic Vita (attributed to King) (l. 7-12). . . New Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1950. Helen Gardner, ed. (1972) Oxford University Press.)

But what I practise with mine eyes.
By which wet glasses I find out
How lazily time creeps about
To one that mourns: this, only this
My exercise and bus'ness is:
So I compute the weary hours
With sighs dissolved into showers.

(Henry King (1592-1669), British Bishop of Chichester. The Exequy (l. 14-20). . . New Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1950. Helen Gardner, ed. (1972) Oxford University Press.)

Tell me no more how fair she is,
I have no minde to hear
The story of that distant bliss
I never shall come near:
By sad experience I have found
That her perfection is my wound.

(Henry King (1592-1669), British Bishop of Chichester. Tell me no more how fair she is (l. 1-6). . . Seventeenth Century Poetry; the Schools of Donne and Jonson. Hugh Kenner, ed. (1964) Holt, Rinehart and Winston.)

Oh teach me to see death, and not to fear,
But rather to take truce;
How often have I seen you at a bier,
And there look fresh and spruce.
You fragrant flowers then teach me that my breath
Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.

(Henry King (1592-1669), British Bishop of Chichester. A Contemplation upon Flowers (l. 13-18). . . Norton Anthology of Poetry, The. Alexander W. Allison and others, eds. (3d ed., 1983) W. W. Norton & Company.)