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: 90 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 ev'ry hour a step towards thee. At night, when I betake to rest, Next morn I rise nearer my West Of life, almost by eight hours' sail Than when sleep breath'd his drowsy gale. 100 Thus from the Sun my bottom steers, And my day's compass downward bears: Nor labour I to stem the tide, 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 A just precedence in the grave. 110 But heark! 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. 120 [_The Exequy._] This beautiful poem (which bore in Hannah's MS. the sub-title, itself not unmemorable, 'To his Matchless never-to-be forgotten Friend') makes, with 'Tell me no more', King's chief claim to poetic rank. It is not--he never is--splendid, or strange, or soul-shaking; but for simplicity, sincerity, tenderness, and grace--nay, as the time went, nature--it has, in its modest way, not many superiors. Versions are found in Ashmole MS. 36, fol. 253, and Rawlinson Poet. MS. 160. fol. 41 verso.] [Line: 36 The] All three MSS. read 'An', which, considering the obvious double meaning of 'earth', is perhaps better.] [Lines: 67-8 Assonance, though not elsewhere unknown, is not common in King.] [Line: 81 seq. If the last paragraph has seemed to any to approach 'False Wit' this ought to make amends. And so with the conclusion.] _The Anniverse. An Elegy._ So soon grown old! hast thou been six years dead? Poor earth, once by my Love inhabited! And must I live to calculate the time To which thy blooming youth could never climb, But fell in the ascent! yet have not I Studied enough thy loss's history.