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Henry King - Silence. A Sonnet
Work rating: Low

Peace my hearts blab, be ever dumb, 
Sorrowes speak loud without a tongue: 
And my perplexed thoughts forbear 
To breath your selves in any ear: 
Tis scarce a true or manly grief 
Which gaddes abroad to find relief. 
Was ever stomack that lackt meat 
Nourisht by what another eat? 
Can I bestow it, or will woe 
Forsake me when I bid it goe? 
Then Ile believe a wounded breast 
May heal by shrift, and purchase rest. 
But if imparting it I do 
Not ease my self, but trouble two, 
`Tis better I alone possess 
My treasure of unhappiness: 
Engrossing that which is my own 
No longer then it is unknown. 
If silence be a kind of death, 
He kindles grief who gives it breath; 
But let it rak`t in embers lye, 
On thine own hearth `twill quickly dye; 
And spight of fate, that very wombe 
Which carries it, shall prove its tombe.
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