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Оплакать бы грехи мои,
Да только слишком поздно.
О колокол, молчи,
Твой погребальный звон
Я слышу в темной сей в ночи,
До сердца потрясен.
Помилуй, Боже!
Смерть страшна;
Все ближе, ближе…
Вот — она!
Перевод Г. Кружкова
John Harington of Stepney (1512–1582)
To His Mother
There was a battle fought of late,
Yet was the slaughter small;
The strife was, whether I should write,
Or send nothing at all.
Of one side were the captains’ names
Short Time and Little Skill;
One fought alone against them both,
Whose name was Great Good-will.
Short Time enforced me in a strait,
And bade me hold my hand;
Small Skill also withstood desire
My writing to withstand.
But Great Good-will, in show though small,
To write encouraged me,
And to the battle held on still,
No common thing to see.
Thus gan these busy warriors three
Between themselves to fight
As valiantly as though they had
Been of much greater might.
Till Fortune, that unconstant dame,
Which rules such things alway,
Did cause the weaker part in fight
To bear the greater sway.
And then the victor caused me,
However was my skill,
To write these verses unto you
To show my great good-will.
Джон Харингтон из Степни (1512–1582)
Дражайшей матушке о сражении, коего свидетелем я стал
Великий приключился бой —
Хотя убитых нет —
Меж тем, писать ли мне письмо,
Иль отложить ответ.
У первой рати во главе
Стоял Сыновний Долг,
Но сэры Спех и Недосуг
Вели враждебный полк.
Спех в западню меня загнал
И выхода лишил,
А Недосуг со всех сторон
Войсками обложил.
Но капитан Сыновний Долг
Подвиг меня писать
И бодро воодушевил
Слабеющую рать.
Бой краток был и не кровав,
Хоть в эти полчаса
Явили обе стороны
Отваги чудеса.
Кому ж Фортуна в этот раз
Победу отдала?
Тому, кто против двух один
Держался, как Скала.
И победитель мне велел,
Едва лишь бой умолк,
Стихи Вам эти написать,
Чтобы явить свой Долг.
Перевод Г. Кружкова
Nicholas Grimald (ca. 1519–1562)
A True Love
What sweet relief the showers to thirsty plants we see,
What dear delight the blooms to bees, my true love is to me!
As fresh and lusty Ver foul Winter doth exceed —
As morning bright, with scarlet sky, doth pass the evening’s weed —
As mellow pears above the crabs esteemèd be —
So doth my love surmount them all, whom yet I hap to see.
The oak shall olives bear, the lamb the lion fray,
The owl shall match the nightingale in tuning of her lay.
Or I may love let slip out of mine entire heart,
So deep reposèd in my breast is she for her desart!
For many blessèd gifts, O happy, happy land!
Where Mars and Pallas strive to make their glory most to stand!
Yet, land, more is thy bliss that, in this cruel age,
A Venus’ imp thou hast brought forth, so steadfast and so sage.
Among the Muses Nine a tenth if Jove would make,
And to the Graces Three a fourth, her would Apollo take.
Let some for honour hunt, and hoard the massy gold:
With her so I may live and die, my weal ca
Man’s Life, after Possidonius or Crates
What path list you to tread? what trade will you assay?
The courts of plea, by brawl and bait, drive geson peace away.
In house for wife and child there is but cark and care;
With travail and with toil enough in fields we use to fare.
Upon the seas lieth dread: the rich in foreign land
Do fear the loss, and there the poor like misers poorly stand.