Текст оригинала на английском языке
YES, I know that you once were my lover, But that sort of thing has an end, And though love and its transports are over, You know you can still be--my friend: I was young, too, and foolish, remember; (Did you ever hear John Hardy sing?) It was then, the fifteenth of November, And this is the end of the spring! You complain that you are not well-treated By my suddenly altering so; Can I help it?--you're very conceited, If you think yourself equal to Joe. Don't kneel at my feet, I implore you; Don't write on the drawings you bring; Don't ask me to say, 'I adore you,' For, indeed, it is now no such thing. I confess, when at Bognor we parted, I swore that I worshipped you then-- That I was a maid broken-hearted, And you the most charming of men. I confess, when I read your first letter, I blotted your name with a tear-- But, oh! I was young--knew no better, Could I tell that I'd meet Hardy here? How dull you are grown! how you worry, Repeating my vows to be true-- If I said so, I told you a story, For I love Hardy better than you! Yes! my fond heart has fixed on another, (I sigh so whenever he's gone,) I shall always love you--as a brother, But my heart is John Hardy's alone.
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