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To Anne

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To Anne

I don't love you, oh blonde Anne
And if you believed it for a while, learn
That we are not one of those people who are led
With a selvage and by the tip of the nose;
I haven't loved you… for a week,
And I don't know why you're surprised.

I do not like you ; you are too coquettish,
And your slightest favors are of bad quality;
By the right of dark eyes, by the right of conquest,
You need lovers. (We don't really know why.)
You play with your gaze like a racket;
You play it, bad girl… and never with me.

I don't love you, and whatever you do,
No, madam, I will never love you.
I like you a lot ; Certainly, I prefer you
To Dorine, to Clarisse, to Lisette, it's true.
Yet love has nothing to do with this affair,
And when it pleases you, I will prove it to you.

I could have loved you; but, don't mind,
With me the feeling hangs by a thread...
Let's face it, however, something weighs on me:
By not loving you, how is it
that I am so awkward, so bad at my ease
When you look at me from the front or from the side?

I don't love you, I don't love anything in the world;
I am iron, I am rock, I am brass.
Shakespeare said of you: "Perfidious as the wave";
But I'm not afraid, because I have sea legs.
Yet when you speak, oh my blond siren,
When you speak, my heart beats like a tambourine.

I don't love you, it's said, I hate you,
I fear you as one fears hell, for fear of fire;
As we fear typhus, cholera, plague,
I hate you to death, madam; but, my God!
Explain to me why I cry, when I go
two days without speaking to you and without seeing you for a bit.

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