Читать книгу The Greatest German Classics (Vol. 1-14) - Various - Страница 983

Forsooth dost pity her?

At night, when at our wheels we sat,

Abroad our mothers ne'er would let us stir.

Then with her lover she must chat,

Or on the bench, or in the dusky walk,

Thinking the hours too brief for their sweet talk;

Her proud head she will have to bow,

And in white sheet do penance now!