Оригинален текст
It seems that when I bleep,
I make love to my little clarinet...
See, Mignonne, hath not the Rose,
That this morning did unclose
Her purple mantle to the light,
Lost, before the day be dead,
The glory of her raiment red,
Her colour, bright as yours is bright?
And if you touch me I'll die, I'll die,
I'll die, and if you touch me I'll die