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Вот проигравший, вот же — победитель…
Тот, кто меня лишить захочет сцены,
Тот лучше пусть лишает всей вселенной.
Перевод А. Серебренникова
Richard Barnfield (1574–1620)
* * *
My flocks feed not,
my ewes breed not,
My rams speed not,
all is amiss.
Love is dying,
faith’s defying,
Heart’s denying
causer of this.
All my merry jigs are quite forgot,
All my lady’s love is lost, God wot.
Where her faith was firmly fixed in love,
There a nay is placed without remove.
One seely cross
wrought all my loss —
O frowning fortune, cursed fickle dame!
For now I see
inconstancy
More in women than in men remain.
In black mourn I,
all fears scorn I,
Love hath forlorn me,
living in thrall.
Heart is bleeding,
all help needing —
O cruel speeding,
freighted with gall.
My shepherd’s pipe can sound no deal,
My wether’s bell rings doleful knell,
My curtal dog that wont to have played
Plays not at all, but seems afraid,
With sighs so deep
procures to weep
In howling wise to see my doleful plight.
How sighs resound
through heartless ground,
Like a thousand vanquished men in bloody fight!
Clear wells spring not,
sweet birds sing not,
Green plants bring not
forth their dye.
Herd stands weeping,
flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs back peeping
fearfully.
All our pleasure known to us poor swains,
All our merry meetings on the plains,
All our evening sport from us is fled,
All our love is lost, for love is dead.
Farewell, sweet lass,
thy like ne’er was
For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan.
Poor Corydon
must live alone,
Other help for him I see that there is none.
* * *
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring;
Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull’st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity:
’Fie, fie, fie!’ now would she cry;
’Tereu, Tereu!’ by and by;
That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs, so lively shown,
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees they ca
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion he is dead,
All thy friends are lapp’d in lead,
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing.
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.
Whilst as fickle Fortune smil’d,
Thou and I were both beguil’d.
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery.
Words are easy, like the wind;
Faithful friends are hard to find:
Every man will be thy friend
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call,
And with such-like flattering,
’Pity but he were a king’.
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,
They have him at commandement:
But if Fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown;
They that fawn’d on him before
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need: