Thomas Wyatt (Томас Уайетт)

* * *

Lucks, my fair falcon, and your fellows all,
   How well pleasant it were your liberty!
Ye not forsake me that fair might ye befall.
But they that sometime liked my company:
Like lice away from dead bodies they crawl.
Lo what a proof in light adversity!
But ye my birds, I swear by all your bells,
Ye be my friends, and so be but few else.

1. What Needeth these Threnning Words and Wasted Wind
2. Mine Own John Poynz
3. The Furious Gun
4. Madame, Withouten Many Words
5. With Serving Still

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1981

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