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Richard Lovelace (Ричард Лавлейс) * * * I. Depose your finger of that ring, And crowne mine with't awhile; Now I restor't. Pray, dos it bring Back with it more of soile? Or shines it not as innocent, As honest, as before 'twas lent? II. So then inrich me with that treasure, 'Twill but increase your store, And please me (faire one) with that pleasure Must please you still the more. Not to save others is a curse The blackest, when y'are ne're the worse. Richard Lovelace's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1303 |
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