(16 January 1592 – 30 September 1669 / Worminghall, Buckinghamshire)

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.
Fit onely 'tis where you bear sway
That Fools or Franticks do obey;
Since judgment, if it not resists,
Will lose it self in your blind mists.
Fall easie 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 soveraign vertue of your Balm,
Which cures a Tempest by a Calm.

by Henry King

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