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* * * HERE lies the blithe Spring, Who first taught birds to sing, Yet in April herself fell a-crying: Then May growing hot, A sweating sickness she got, And the first of June lay a-dying. Yet no month can say, But her merry daughter May Stuck her coffins with flowers great plenty: The cuckoo sung in verse An epitaph o'er her hearse, But assure you the lines were not dainty. Thomas Dekker's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1505 |
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