58.
Kak tvoj sluga, tvoj rab i tvoj vassal,
Gotov ya zhdat' chasy, nedeli, gody,
I, kak by ya pri etom ne stradal,
Ne prestuplyu granic tvoej svobody!
Po milosti tvoej, pozvol' stradat',
I strazhnikov pozvol' ubit', proklyatyh;
I terpelivo kazhdyj chek prinyat',
Bez obvineniya tebya v rastratah.
Svobod i prav svyatoe assorti
YA ne narushu ropotom glumlen'ya,
CHto hochesh' delaj; sam sebya prosti
Za merzost' svoego grehopaden'ya.
Hot' ozhidan'ya adom ya tomim,
Ty volen, byt' zdorovym il' bol'nym.
59.
If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
The second burden of a former child!
O, that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Whether we are mended, or whether better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
O, sure I am, the wits of former days
To subjects worse have given admiring praise.
59.
CHto bylo ran'she, mozhet povtorit'sya,
CHerez minutu, ili vek spustya,
Nas sogrevaet mysl', chto vozroditsya
V medvezh'ej shkure prezhnee ditya!
Pripominayu, let pyat'sot nazad
YA videl obraz tvoj v antichnoj knige,
Moj yunyj drug, uvidet' vnov' ya rad
Ego cherty v tvo¸m prekrasnom like!
Vnov' staryj mir po staromu lekalu
Tebya sozdal, il' eto tol'ko son;
Ty prezhnij? luchshe? verit' li zercalu?
Il' povernulos' zhizni koleso?
O, ya uveren, razum prezhnih dnej
YAvil ne hudshij svet svoih tenej.
60.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked elipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
60.
Volnam podobno, chto o kamen' b'yutsya,
Speshat minuty k svoemu koncu;
V boren'e k gibeli oni nesutsya
Na smenu pobezhd¸nnomu borcu.
Rozhdayas' slabym, vskore vyrastaya,
I, prevrashchayas' v hrabrogo bojca,
S sud'boyu gordyj voin v boj vstupaet,
No porazhaet Vremya gordeca.
Tak kosit Vremya yunye socvet'ya,
I krasote nanositsya ushcherb,
I dlitsya zhatva gody i stolet'ya,
I ne ostanovit' zhestokij serp:
No ya nadeyus' rifmoyu zhivoyu
Sberech' tebya, chtob mir ne vzvyl vdovoyu.
61.
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.
61.
O, razve ty glaza mne otkryvaesh',
Holodnoj noch'yu muchaya menya?
I razve ty dremotu preryvaesh',
Svoeyu ten'yu bednyj vzor draznya?
I tvoj li duh iz dal'nego prostranstva
Toboyu poslan, chtob sledit' za mnoj,
Postydnoj leni ulichit' zhemanstvo,
Revnivyj strazhnik i hranitel' tvoj?
O, net! hot' velika tvoya lyubov':
No ne ona mne veki otkryvaet;
Moya lyubov', moya, burlit mne krov',
Tebya nochnoj poroyu ohranyaet:
Na strazhe ya, poka ty bodrym vzglyadom
V strane dal¸koj, no s drugimi ryadom.
62.
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
And all my soul and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
62.
V svoih glazah, v dushe i kletkoj kazhdoj
Ispolnen ya grehom lyubvi k sebe;
Ishchu lekarstvo, iscelitsya zhazhdu,
No vtorit serdce sladkoj pohval'be.
YA polagayu, chto prekrasnej vseh,
Vseh luchshe, sovershennej, blagorodnej;
I bol'she vseh ya zasluzhil uspeh,
Poskol'ku vseh lyudej ya prevoshodnej.
No v zerkale vstrechayu dvojnika,
Pohozhego na drevnego doldona,
I ya gotov namyat' emu boka;
Za to, chto zavladel mnoj nezakonno.
Tak vot kogo hvalyu do hripoty,
Svoj slepok, kal'ku s drevnej krasoty.
63.
Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn;
When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.
63.
YA znayu, Vremya hvatkoyu smertel'noj,
Kak i menya, sotr¸t moyu lyubov';
Issushit sily holodom metel'nym,
I glubinoj morshchin izrezhet brov',
V nochnuyu temen' yunost' unes¸tsya,
Ischeznut princy zolotoj strany,
Rukoj holodnoj roz ono kosn¸tsya,
I ukrad¸t sokrovishcha vesny;
Beg Vremeni uzhasnyj, bystrotechnyj,
No zashchishchu ya slaboyu rukoj
Tvoj yunyj cvet, i v pamyati navechno
Vpishu ego korotkoyu strokoj:
Cvet ch¸rnoj strochki belogo listka,
Hrani lyubov' zel¸nogo cvetka.
64.
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
64.
Kogda ya vizhu, Vremya hishchnoj pticej
Rv¸t zhertvu, ostavlyaya lish' rubcy;
Kogda ya vizhu, varvarstvo glumitsya
I v prah stiraet carskie dvorcy;
Kak okean golodnyj pogloshchaet
Volnoj svirepoj gordost' korolej,
I suhovej v pustynyu prevrashchaet
Kov¸r bogatyj solnechnyh polej;
Kogda ya vizhu, kak rast¸t stradan'e,
No ubivaet Vremya i ego;
YA ponimayu gibel'nym soznan'em,
CHto chas prid¸t dlya druga moego.
I eta mysl' kak nozh, kak smert', kak strah,
Zastyvshij drug s ulybkoj na ustah.
65.
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
65.
Kogda ni med', ni kamni, ni potok
Ne izbegut smertel'nogo napora,
Mol'boj kakoyu, slaben'kij cvetok,
Spasti tebya ot gneva zlogo vora?
O, kak lugov ves¸loe dyhan'e
Ot gibel'nyh udarov uberech',
V bronyu kakuyu hrupkoe sozdan'e
Ot razrushen'ya Vremeni oblech'?
|h! vzyat' sunduk by, zapechatat' probkoj,
No gde mne klad ot Vremeni ukryt'?
I kak sekretnuyu uznayu tropku?
I cennosti kto smozhet sohranit'?
O, net, himera, skazka, vzdor debila,
CHto cvet moej lyubvi spasut chernila.
66.
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
66.
Do smerti nadoel svoim sonetom,
YA vizhu oborvanca nishchetu,
I klouna ves¸lye kuplety,
I chistoj very zluyu klevetu,
I chesti neumestnoe glumlen'e,
I nadrugatel'stvo nad krasotoj,
I sovershenstv obidnye sklonen'ya,
I rezvost' bega loshadi hromoj,
I ishchushchuyu slavu bestalannost',
I glupostej nazojlivuyu vyaz',
I poshlyh istin divnuyu zhemannost',
I svezhest', grubo vtoptannuyu v gryaz'.
Smertel'no nadoel mne tvoj sonet,
Umri hranimaya lyubov' vo mne.
67.
Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve
And lace itself with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek
And steal dead seeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no excheckr now but his,
And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.
O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long since, before these last so bad.
67.
Ah! pochemu zaraznoe somnen'e
V izyashchnoj golove nashlo priyut,
Zachem vnimat' grehovnym ustremlen'yam,
Kotorye nas k gibeli vlekut?
Zachem rumyanec voru i nahalu,
CHej cvet ugas v poddel'noj suete?
Zachem on ishchet ten' i put' k finalu,
A ne stremitsya k sobstvennoj mechte?
Zachem zhiv¸t, Prirodu razoryaya,
V styde krasivyh i rumyanyh shch¸k?
Ona ego ukrasila, lentyaya,
A on, nadmennyj, eyu prenebr¸g.
Hranit ego zatem priroda-mat',
CHtob mudroe terpen'e pokazat'.
68.
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before the bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.
68.
V ego rumyance otpechatan sled,
Ostatok zhizni umershchvl¸nnoj rozy,
Znak krasoty, carivshej mnogo let,
Pokoya uzurpatora ugrozy.
Zlatye lokony ego glavy
ZHivut vtorichno, i prava ukrali
U nasypi mogil'noj i travy;
Ibo drugih krasavcev ukrashali:
Sebe zabral on drevnie odezhdy,
Poprav ih pravdu, svyatost', vysotu.
A chto vzamen? i tak zhiv¸t, nevezhda,
Obryazhennyj v chuzhuyu krasotu;
Priroda v nazidanie hranit
Primer antichnyj i fal'shivyj vid.
69.
Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;
All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;
Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.
69.
Vo vneshnosti, chto miru ty yavlyaesh',
Iz®yana net, i net ni v ch¸m grehov;
Vse chestno skazhut, chto ty vyzyvaesh'
Vostorg druzej i pohvalu vragov.
Uvenchan vneshne vneshneyu hvaloyu;
No tochno takzhe te zhe yazyki
Zabudut obraz tvoj, pokrytyj mgloyu,
Lish' tol'ko otnesut tebe venki.
O cheloveke sudyat po delam,
I ih zhe dobrym slovom vspominayut;
Dlya sornyh trav ne kuryat fimiam,
Ibo uzhasnyj zapah istochayut:
Tak li horosh tvoj zapah, kak i vid,
Podumaj, izmenis' i udivi.
70.
That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,
Either not assail'd or victor being charged;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy evermore enlarged:
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.
70.
Ne preziraj soneta otrican'em,
Zloslovie - est' sputnik krasoty;
Ornamentu pokazano vniman'e,
Voronij znak na fone vysoty.
Horoshij kritik milym odobren'em
Voznosit vyshe prelesti tvoi;
ZHuchok cvetku okazhet predpochten'e,
No ne sgubit' dyhanie lyubvi.
Sidya na pechke yunosti prelestnoj,
Branit' netrudno i vesti vojnu;
No grosh cena viktorii chudesnoj,
CHto, mnozha zavist', gubit glubinu:
Slepoj moj kritik, budu rad serdechno,
Kogda ty sbrosish' svoj naryad uvechnyj.
71.
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan
And mock you with me after I am gone.
71.
Ne ubivajsya sil'no obo mne,
Kogda uslyshish' kolokol gnetushchij,
CHto soobshchit zloveshchej tishine
Ob otroke, sredi chervej zhivushchem.
Kogda procht¸sh' pis'mo, ne vspominaj
Ruki, chto napisala eti stroki,
Pechal'yu rastrevozhit' nevznachaj
Mne ne hotelos' by tvoj um zhestokij.
O, esli ty uvidish' slabyj stih,
Soedin¸nnyj s holodom mogil'nym,
Ne obo mne vzdohni, a o zhivyh,
O, svetlyj drug moj, pravil'nyj i sil'nyj,
Pust' mudryj mir ne vidit vopl' tvoj,
Kogda ujdu, posmejsya nado mnoj.
72.
O, lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O, lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
72.
O, ne prizval by mir tebya k otvetu,
CHto s nedostojnym v¸l besedu ty,
Zabud' moi ushcherbnye primety,
Skorej zabud' nichtozhnye cherty;
Lish' v pros'be maloj, svet neugasimyj,
Ne otkazhi, kogda prid¸t konec,
Puskaj mo¸ nizvergnutoe imya
Posluzhit luchshe, chem ego skupec:
CHtob svet tvoej lyubvi moeyu lozh'yu
Ne zapyatnat' nepravdoyu ego,
Pust' imya budet tam, gde prah nichtozhnyj,
I ne trevozhit styd moj nikogo.
Raz etot styd napisan dlya menya,
To sdelaj tak, vo vs¸m menya vinya.
73.
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
73.
Ty vidish', ya kak osen', chto ronyaet
Negodnyj list i ogolyaet suk,
Pred holodom ih tysyachi sletayut,
Hot' ran'she slyshalsya v nih ptichij zvuk.
Vo mne neyasnost' sumrachnogo dnya,
V kotorom solnce klonitsya k zakatu,
I s vysoty kraj nochi vizhu ya,
CHto pripechataet vas vseh, rebyata.
Vo mne ty vidish' pepel i zolu,
CHto v yunosti nam serdce obzhigayut,
Kotoryh serdce prevratit vo mglu,
To potreblyaya, chto ego pitaet.
Podumaj, stan' sil'nej, lyubov' tvoya
Prekrasna iskroj tvoego ognya.
74.
But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead,
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.
74.
No bud' dovolen: na gore krutoj
Ostavlen bez zashchity v shkure zverya
Zatem, chto interesny mne, drug moj,
Dostoinstva tvoi, tvoi poteri.
Kogda uvidish' snova eti stroki,
Tebe ih silu posvyashchayu ya:
Zemle zemnye otda¸m my soki;
V tebe - moj duh, chast' luchshaya moya:
I ty togda razrushish' plemya trusov,
CHervej mogil'nyh, zavladevshih mnoj,
Molitvoj podloyu svoih ukusov
Glumyashchihsya nad pamyat'yu zhivoj.
Cena soneta - v zvukah krasoty,
Ona - v tebe, i v nej prebudesh' ty.
75.
So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
Now proud as an enjoyer and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure;
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.
75.
Dlya mysli ty, kak pishcha - dlya zhivushchih;
Kak pochva blagodatnaya - dlya roz.
I kak skupec zabyvchivyj, vedushchij
Vojnu za to, chtob vylechit' skleroz;
Vdrug ot vesel'ya burnogo k obryvu
S licom surovym ustremlyaesh' put',
To vtopchesh' v gryaz' chudesnye poryvy,
To radost' vstrechi perepolnit grud';
To ugostish' roskoshnym yarkim svetom,
To ne dozhdat'sya slabogo lucha;
CHto lozh', chto pravda, udostoj otvetom,
Kakaya radost' v smehe palacha.
Po gorlo syt ya, hot' davno ne em,
Il' nakormi, ili ujdi sovsem.
76.
Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.
76.
Zachem ya pyshnoj vyaz'yu slov tupyh
Pytayus' otdal¸nnoe priblizit'?
I pochemu, blesnuv, moj strannyj stih
Vysokoe staraetsya unizit'?
Zachem pishu i vechno trachu sily
Na sornyakov zatejlivyj uzor,
Raz vyda¸t ih sornyj vid unylyj
Ih avtora i avtorskij pozor?
O, znayu, znayu, znayu, dlya tebya
Pishu stihi ya nezhno i s lyubov'yu;
Ispravlyus' ya, vo vs¸m tebya lyubya,
I plat'e staryh slov pokroyu nov'yu:
Kak solnce kazhdyj den' siyaet vnov',
Da budet svet inoj u staryh slov.
77.
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know
Time's thievish progress to eternity.
Look, what thy memory can not contain
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.
77.
Pokazhet zerkalo osennij sad,
CHasy pokazhut snezhnuyu pustynyu,
Opavshij list pokazhet medvezhat,
A bukvy knigi sobstvennoe imya.
Iz zazerkal'ya vylezshij nahal
Pokazhet vhod v podzemnye palaty,
A skol'ko ty u vechnosti ukral
Pokazhet Vremya ten'yu ciferblata.
Ne mozhet pamyat' dolgo uderzhat'
Prostornyh myslej, ishchet povituhu,
CHtob mir uvidel milyh medvezhat,
I plach uslyshal ih, priyatnyj sluhu.
CHem chashche stanesh' vzglyad obogashchat',
Tem luchshe eta bednaya tetrad'.
78.
So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly
Have added feathers to the learned's wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine and born of thee:
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.
78.
Kak chasto zval tebya ya, moya Muza,
I pomoshch' nahodil moj bednyj stih,
Pero chuzhoe, sbrosiv lozhnost' gruza,
Vmig vyvodilo kontur slov zhivyh.
Nemoj moj golos pen'yu obuchala,
I v vysotu nevezhestvo zvala,
I mglu nochnuyu svetom ozaryala,
I nagrazhdala kryl'yami orla.
Mne radostno s toboyu, princ, idti,
I nablyudat' krasot tvoih rozhden'e:
Ty smozhesh' mnogoe, uluchshi stil',
Svyazhi stihi so smelym otkroven'em;
Vseh prevzojdi, stan' slaven i velik
I nauchis' ne slushat' slov moih.
79.
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue and he stole that word
From thy behavior; beauty doth he give
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.
79.
Poka odin ya pomoshch' prizyval,
To pela rifma v divnom ozaren'e,
No vs¸ proshlo, razrushilos', final,
I izmenilas' Muza v presyshchen'e.
Moj svetlyj princ, voz'mi mo¸ pero,
Primi ego dostojnoyu rukoyu,
I iskazh¸nnyh strochek serebro
Perepishi velikoyu strokoyu.
Otmsti emu za gadkie slova;
Tvoih dostoinstv derzkoe toptan'e;
Ono ne pribavlyaet masterstva,
No mozhet dat' pozor ili priznan'e.
No blagodarnyh slov ne govori,
Ostanovi mgnoven'e, raz, dva, tri.
80.
O, how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark inferior far to his
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this; my love was my decay.
80.
O, duh vsesil'nyj, za mo¸ glumlen'e
Molchaniem nakazan dobryj brat,
Ne slyshno bol'she strojnyh zvukov pen'e,
O, kak zhe ya, neschastnyj, vinovat!
Kak okean beskrajnij byl talant,
A ya medved' v zanoschivoj grimase,
Nichtozhnyj i upryamyj diletant,
Derznuvshij plyt' na malen'kom barkase.
Poka spokoen okean ogromnyj,
Barkas kachaet melkaya volna,
A otplyvu, pogibnet on, nikch¸mnyj,
Postroennyj na verfyah hvastuna:
Mne ne obidno, chto pogib barkas,
Obidno to, chto druga ya ne spas.
81.
Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live - such virtue hath my pen -
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
81.
Tvoej li epitafiej ya budu,
Il' ty perezhiv¸sh' gniluyu plot';
I esli vspomnit mir menya, zanudu,
To kak Iudy merzkogo shchepot'.
Ty v kazhdom dobrom serdce budesh' svetom,
Hotya ne mne ob etom govorit':
Puskaj mogila budet mne zapretom,
No dobryj svet tvoj dolzhen dal'she zhit'.
V moih poslushnyh strochkah tvoya pamyat',
Pust' prochitaet ne rozhd¸nnyj glaz,
Pust' yazyka kosn¸tsya tvo¸ plamya,
Kogda zabudet mir nichtozhnyh nas;
Ty budesh' zhit' - pishu rukoj prezrennoj -
V dyhan'e kazhdom, merzkom i blazhennom.
82.
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
And therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days
And do so, love; yet when they have devised
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
And their gross painting might be better used
Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.
82.
U kazhdogo svoj put', svoi svershen'ya,
I bylo by beschest'em brosit' vzor
Na obrazcy prekrasnejshih tvorenij,
Ukrast' ih svet, ih slavu il' pozor,
Ego stihov prekrasnaya pechat'
Kak vyzov moim prezhnim voshvalen'yam,
I potomu, ya dolzhen otyskat'
Puti inye k novym voshozhden'yam,
Smelej, lyubov'; u ritora i druga
Poslushny byli druzhnye slova,
Igrali v natyazhenii uprugom,
Perelivayas' iskroj ozorstva;
I na shchekah chertili krov'yu znak,
Znak krasnoj rozy; ty ne smozhesh' tak.
83.
I never saw that you did painting need
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt;
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself being extant well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
83.
Kak obzhigaet krasnoj rozy cvet,
SHipy, vonzayas', dlyat moi muchen'ya;
Preuvelichil, dumal ya, poet
Pustogo slova bednoe znachen'e;
I potomu vinoj moj sonnyj glaz,
Kotoryj ty budil chudesnoj siloj,
No oshchetinil igly dikobraz,
I zamolchal prekrasnyj golos, milyj.
Nemoj moj greh prichina nemoty,
Tak pust' ona vo slave vossiyaet;
Zamolknu ya, gubitel' krasoty,
Pust' zhizn' vokrug burlit i umiraet.
V glazah poetov ty zhiv¸sh' prekrasno,
A ty umolkni, golos moj neschastnyj.
84.
Who is it that says most? which can say more
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.
84.
Kto bol'she govorit? chto skazhet on,
Sverh slov pustyh pustogo samohvala?
A tot, kto vnutr' temnicy zaklyuch¸n,
Vseh luchshe znaet temnotu podvala.
CHernila iz chernil'nicy hudoj
Nam mogut soobshchit' o slave mira;
No smozhet li rasskazchik neplohoj,
Ne priukrasiv krasoty kumira,
Nam peredat' dostoinstva ego,
Ne huzhe, chem priroda sotvorila,
Prevoznosya geroya svoego,
Portret risuya istiny i sily.
Ty, upivayas' prelest'yu stenan'ya,
Hvalu voznosish' sobstvennym stradan'yam.
85.
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
Reserve their character with golden quill
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
I think good thoughts whilst other write good words,
And like unletter'd clerk still cry 'Amen'
To every hymn that able spirit affords
In polish'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say ''Tis so, 'tis true,'
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
85.
YAzyk, yazyk, o, bednyj moj yazyk,
Ty povtoryaesh' tol'ko mysli umnyh,
Zlatye mysli slavnyh dobryh knig,
I ozareniya mgnovenij lunnyh.
CHuzhie mysli, verenicej mysli,
YA tochno klerk, ya pop, ya popugaj,
CHuzhie gimny dushu mne izgryzli,
I slov chuzhih snimayu urozhaj.
Ty govorish', ya golovoj kivayu,
Vnov' voshishch¸nnyj mudrost'yu tvoej;
Moya lyubov' slova peregonyaet,
Slova otstali ot lyubvi moej.
Moej lyubvi spasibo govoryu,
V slova oblekshuyu lyubov' moyu.
86.
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.
86.
Ego li gordyj brig pod parusami
Stihiej slov perepolnyal glavu,
CHtob veter myslej vosparil nad nami
I prevratilsya, umiraya, v zvuk?
Ego li duh dyhan'em okeana
Parit' uchil upryamoe pero?
O, net, uchil sonet igroj tumana,
A ne pomoshchnik tvoj i moshch' vetrov.
Sonet, a ne tvoj gost' nochnym siyan'em,
K kotoromu moj glupyj glaz privyk,
Sorval zavesu moego molchan'ya;
Ne strahom boli bolen byl yazyk:
YA odobreniya stihov ne zhdu;
Ne osudi hvaloj na nemotu.
87.
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gave