|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Seventeenth-Century Madrigal
My Love in her attire doth show her wit,
It doth so well become her;
For every season she hath dressing fit,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No beauty she doth miss
When all her robes are on:
But Beauty's self she is
When all her robes are gone.
Anonymous
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
