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Michael Drayton (Майкл Дрейтон)


Sonnet 21. A Witless Gallant


A witless gallant a young wench that woo'd
(Yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move),
Entreated me, as e'er I wish'd his good,
To write him but one sonnet to his love;
When I, as fast as e'er my pen could trot,
Pour'd out what first from quick invention came,
Nor never stood one word thereof to blot,
Much like his wit that was to use the same;
But with my verses he his mistress won,
Which doted on the dolt beyond all measure.
But see, for you to Heav'n for phrase I run,
And ransack all Apollo's golden treasure;
    Yet by my froth this fool his love obtains, 
    And I lose you for all my love and pains.



Michael Drayton's other poems:
  1. Sonnet 28. To Such as Say thy Love I Overprize
  2. Sonnet 22. With Fools and Children
  3. Sonnet 30. Those Priests which First the Vestal Fire Begun
  4. Sonnet 45. Muses, which Sadly Sit about My Chair
  5. Sonnet 36. Thou Purblind Boy


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