My Love In Her Attire Doth Shew Her Wit
My Love in her attire doth shew her wit,
It doth so well become her;
For every season she hath dressings 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.
It doth so well become her;
For every season she hath dressings 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.
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