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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408487" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>St. Valentines day</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now that each feather'd Chorister doth sing <br>The glad approches of the welcome Spring: <br>Now Phœbus darts forth his more early beam, <br>And dips it later in the curled stream, <br>I should to custome prove a retrograde <br>Did I still dote upon my sullen shade. <br>Oft have the seasons finisht and begun; <br>Dayes into Months, those into years have run, <br>Since my cross Starres and inauspicious fate <br>Doom'd me to linger here without my Mate: <br>Whose loss ere since befrosting my desire, <br>Left me an Altar without Gift or Fire. <br>I therefore could have wisht for your own sake <br>That Fortune had design'd a nobler stake <br>For you to draw, then one whose fading day <br>Like to a dedicated Taper lay <br>Within a Tomb, and long burnt out in vain, <br>Since nothing there saw better by the flame. <br>Yet since you like your Chance, I must not try <br>To marre it through my incapacity. <br>I here make title to it, and proclaime <br>How much you honour me to wear my name; <br>Who can no form of gratitude devise, <br>But offer up my self your sacrifice. <br>Hail then my worthy Lot! and may each Morn <br>Successive springs of joy to you be born: <br>May your content ne're wane, untill my heart <br>Grown Bankrupt, wants good wishes to impart. <br>Henceforth I need not make the dust my Shrine, <br>Nor search the Grave for my lost Valentine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+King">Henry King</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408487" data-title="St. Valentines day de Henry King" data-description="Now that each feather'd Chorister doth sing 
The glad approches of the welcome Spring: 
Now Phœbus darts forth his more early beam, 
And dips it later in the curled stream, 
I should to custome prove a retrograde 
Did I still dote upon my sullen ..."></div>
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