Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Unknown - Страница 98

     My Love in her attire doth shew her wit,

      It doth so well become her;

     For every season she hath dressings fit,

      For Winter, Spring, and Summer.

      No beauty she doth miss

      When all her robes are on

      But Beauty's self she is

      When all her robes are gone.