Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Various - Страница 30

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Sweet Love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory,

Subdue her heart, who makes me glad and sorry:

Out of thy golden quiver

Take thou thy strongest arrow

That will through bone and marrow,

And me and thee of grief and fear deliver:—

But come behind, for if she look upon thee,

Alas! poor Love! then thou art woe-begone thee!

Anon.