| 作词 : William Shakespeare | |
| 作曲 : Antal Cezar Alexandru | |
| Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all: | |
| What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? | |
| No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call— | |
| All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. | |
| Then if for my love thou my love receivest, | |
| I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest; | |
| But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest | |
| By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. | |
| I do forgive thy robb’ry, gentle thief, | |
| Although thou steal thee all my poverty; | |
| And yet love knows it is a greater grief | |
| To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury. | |
| Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, | |
| Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes. |
| zuo ci : William Shakespeare | |
| zuo qu : Antal Cezar Alexandru | |
| Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all: | |
| What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? | |
| No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call | |
| All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. | |
| Then if for my love thou my love receivest, | |
| I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest | |
| But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest | |
| By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. | |
| I do forgive thy robb' ry, gentle thief, | |
| Although thou steal thee all my poverty | |
| And yet love knows it is a greater grief | |
| To bear love' s wrong than hate' s known injury. | |
| Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, | |
| Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes. |
| zuò cí : William Shakespeare | |
| zuò qǔ : Antal Cezar Alexandru | |
| Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all: | |
| What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? | |
| No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call | |
| All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. | |
| Then if for my love thou my love receivest, | |
| I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest | |
| But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest | |
| By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. | |
| I do forgive thy robb' ry, gentle thief, | |
| Although thou steal thee all my poverty | |
| And yet love knows it is a greater grief | |
| To bear love' s wrong than hate' s known injury. | |
| Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, | |
| Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes. |
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