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Henry King - SONNET. Tell me you stars that our affections move
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Tell me you stars that our affections move, 
Why made ye me that cruell one to love? 
Why burnes my heart her scorned sacrifice, 
Whose breast is hard as Chrystall, cold as Ice? 
God of Desire! if all thy Votaries 
Thou thus repay, succession will grow wise; 
No sighs for incense at thy Shrine shall smoke,
Thy Rites will be despis`d, thy Altars broke. 
O! or give her my flame to melt that snow 
Which yet unthaw`d does on her bosome grow; 
Or make me ice, and with her chrystall chaines 
Binde up all love within my frozen veines:
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