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Henry King - To a Lady who sent me a copy of verses at my going to bed
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Lady your art or wit could nere devise 
To shame me more then in this nights surprise. 
Why I am quite unready, and my eye 
Now winking like my candle, doth deny 
To guide my hand, if it had ought to write; 
Nor can I make my drowsie sense indite 
Which by your verses musick (as a spell 
Sent from the Sybellean Oracle) 
Is charm`d and bound in wonder and delight, 
Faster then all the leaden chains of night. 
What pity is it then you should so ill 
Employ the bounty of your flowing quill, 
As to expend on him your bedward thought, 
Who can acknowledge that large love in nought 
But this lean wish; that fate soon send you those 
Who may requite your rhimes with midnight prose? 
Mean time, may all delights and pleasing Theams 
Like Masquers revell in your Maiden dreams, 
Whil`st dull to write, and to do more unmeet, 
I, as the night invites me, fall asleep.
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