Текст оригинала на английском языке
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Think not, not for a moment let your mind, Wearied with thinking, doze upon the thought That the work’s done and the long day behind, And beauty, since ’tis paid for, can be bought. If in the moonlight from the silent bough Suddenly with precision speak your name The nightingale, be not assured that now His wing is limed and his wild virtue tame. Beauty beyond all feathers that have flown Is free; you shall not hood her to your wrist, Nor sting her eyes, nor have her for your own In an fashion; beauty billed and kissed Is not your turtle; tread her like a dove She loves you not; she never heard of love.
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