Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
An Expostulation
Why want to go afar Where pitfalls are, When all we swains adore Your featness more and more As heroine of our artless masquings here, And count few Wessex’ daughters half so dear? Why paint your appealing face, When its born grace Is such no skill can match With powder, puff, or patch, Whose every touch defames your bloomfulness, And with each stain increases our distress? Yea, is it not enough That (rare or rough Your lines here) all uphold you, And as with wings enfold you, But you must needs desert the kine-cropt vale Wherein your foredames gaily filled the pail?
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