2 мин

St Valentines day

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 shade.

Oft have the seasons finisht and begun;

Dayes into Months, those into years have run,

Since my cross Starres and inauspicious fate Doom'd me to linger here without my Mate:

Whose loss ere since befrosting my desire,

Left me an Altar without Gift or Fire.

I therefore could have wisht for your own sake That Fortune had design'd a nobler stake For you to draw, then one whose fading day Like to a dedicated Taper lay Within a Tomb, and long burnt out in vain,

Since nothing there saw better by the flame.

Yet since you like your Chance,

I must not try To marre it through my incapacity.

I here make title to it, and proclaime How much you honour me to wear my name;

Who can no form of gratitude devise,

But offer up my self your sacrifice.

Hail then my worthy Lot! and may each Morn Successive springs of joy to you be born:

May your content ne're wane, untill my heart Grown Bankrupt, wants good wishes to impart.

Henceforth I need not make the dust my Shrine,

Nor search the Grave for my lost Valentine.


Henry King

Henry King (1592 – 30 September 1669) was an English poet who served as Bishop of Chichester.

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