Ïðî÷èòàíèé :  165
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Òâîð÷³ñòü |
Á³îãðàô³ÿ |
Êðèòèêà
What then is loue but mourning?
What then is loue but mourning?
What desire, but a selfe-burning?
Till shee that hates doth loue returne,
Thus will I mourne, thus will I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.
Beautie is but a blooming,
Youth in his glorie entombing;
Time hath a while, which none can stay:
Then come away, while thus I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.
Sommer in winter fadeth;
Gloomie night heaun'ly light shadeth:
Like to the morne are Venus flowers;
Such are her howers : then will I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.
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