Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE COMPLAINT, by HENRY KING (1592-1669)


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THE COMPLAINT, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Fond, hapless man, lost in thy vain desire
Last Line: If it but lodge, will quench, my flame.


FOND, hapless man, lost in thy vain desire;
Thy lost desire
May now retire.
She, like a salamander, in thy flame
Sports with Love's name,
And lives the same,
Unsinged, impenetrably cold.
Sure, careless Boy, thou slep'st; and Death, instead
Of thine, conveyed
His dart of lead.
This thou unluckily at her hast sent,
Who now is bent
Not to relent,
Though thou spend all thy shafts of gold.
I prithee filch another fatal dart
And pierce my heart;
To ease this smart,
Strike all my senses dull. Thy force devours
Me and my powers
In tedious hours,
And thy injustice I'll proclaim
Or use some art to cause her heat return,
Or whilst I burn
Make her my urn,
Where I may bury in a marble chest
All my unrest.
Thus her cold breast,
If it but lodge, will quench, my flame.





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