HENRY KING. THE EXEQUY. ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED WIFE. ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint And, for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse, Receive a strew of weeping verse From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see Quite melted into tears for thee. Dear loss! Since thy untimely fate, My task hath been to meditate On thee, on thee: thou art the book, The library whereon I look, Though almost blind; for thee, loved clay, I languish out, not live the day, Using no other exercise 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 N Thou hast benighted me; thy set I could allow thee for a time These empty hopes: never shall I A glimpse of thee, till that day come Meantime thou hast her, Earth: much good Which in thy casket shrin'd doth lie: My last good night! thou wilt not wake It so much loves; and fill the room Of life, almost by eight hours' sail, Through which to thee I swiftly glide. "Tis true, with shame and grief I 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 But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, The thought of this bids me go on, With hope and comfort: Dear, (forgive LIFE. LIKE to the falling of a star, |