V svoem lyubimom otpryske ty snova, Svoeyu krov'yu krov' ego sochtesh', Kotoraya vzygrat' uzhe gotova, Vot krasota, vot mudrost', vot rascvet; Inache starcheskaya dur' s toskoj; Dostatochno shestidesyati let, CHtob vymer pogolovno rod lyudskoj. Puskaj ischeznet posle pohoron Kakoj-nibud' ubogij i bezlikij, A ty prirodoj shchedro odaren; Greh rastochit' podobnyj dar velikij. Pojmi: pechat' prirody ty teper'. Svoyu zhivuyu kopiyu zaver'. Sonnet XII When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves, Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake And die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing "gainst Time"s scythe can make defence Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. Kogda ya slyshu, kak chasy idut, I v lone dnya noch' mrachnaya vidna, I smerti po vesne fialki zhdut, A v byvshih chernyh pryadyah sedina, Kogda na skvoznyake lesnoj tropy, Ozyabnuv, list'ya zhalobno drozhat, Kogda beloborodye snopy Na vseh telegah trupami lezhat, Togda ya zadayu sebe vopros, Kak uberech'sya krasote tvoej Sred' neizbezhnyh gibel'nyh ugroz V sumyatice rozhdenij i smertej. Serp vremeni ostree chto ni god. Plodis' - i sam sebe sozdash' oplot. Sonnet XIII O! That you were your self; but, love, you are No longer yours, than you your self here live: Against this coming end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give: So should that beauty which you hold in lease Find no determination; then you were Yourself again, after yourself s decease, When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, Which husbandry in honour might uphold, Against the stormy gusts of winter's day And barren rage of death's eternal cold? O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know, You had a father: let your son say so. Ty vse eshche sebe prinadlezhish', Lyubimyj, potomu chto ty zhivoj, Odnako smerti ty ne izbezhish'... Tem dragocennej byl by obraz tvoj. Ty vzyal nevol'no krasotu vzajmy, Kotoraya tvoeyu mozhet stat', Kogda pozvolish' ty, dobycha t'my, Tvoeyu formoj bez tebya blistat'. Kto, krome rastochitelya, svoj dom Podvergnet yarosti smertel'nyh zim, Pobrezgovav supruzheskim trudom I, sledovatel'no, soboj samim? Puskaj tebya pomyanet kto-nibud', Kak ty otca ne mog ne pomyanut'. Sonnet XIV Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck; And yet methinks I have Astronomy, But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, Or say with princes if it shall go well By oft predict that I in heaven find: But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, And, constant stars, in them I read such art As truth and beauty shall together thrive, If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert; Or else of thee this I prognosticate: Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. Pust' lish' otchasti mne znakom yazyk Nebesnyh zvezd, ya tozhe astronom, Hot' ya sudit' po zvezdam ne privyk O potryasen'yah na puti zemnom; Ne znayu, kak predrech' minutam srok I dozhd', blagopriyatnyj dlya polej; CHitat' ya ne umeyu zvezdnyh strok, Ne smeyu obnadezhit' korolej; No mne chitat' v tvoih glazah dano, V nadezhnyh zvezdah, dazhe v nashi dni, CHto krasota i pravda zaodno, I lish' v tvoih glazah zhivut oni; Glaza tvoi otkryli mne sekret: Net krasoty bez nih i pravdy net. Sonnet XV When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Time debateth with decay To change your day of youth to sullied night, And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new. Kogda v proizrastan'e vizhu tlen, A sovershenstvo hrupkoe - na mig, I zhizn' - teatr, gde smenu bystryh scen Lish' tajnyj zvezdnyj hor davno postig; Kogda smotryu, kak chelovek vzrashchen Vse tem zhe nebom, i v rascvete let Byvaet rost vnezapno prekrashchen, I v pamyati zateryan byvshij sled, Kogda nepostoyanstvo nashih dnej Tvoej bespechnoj krasote grozit I predannoj lyubvi moej vidnej, Kak vremya etu roskosh' iskazit, Za krasotu ne bojsya ty tvoyu, Ee tebe ya zanovo priv'yu. Sonnet XVI But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify your self in your decay With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens, yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair, Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, Can make you live your self in eyes of men. To give away yourself, keeps yourself still, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. Tvoj lyutyj nedrug - Vremya! Tem sil'nej Ty v shvatke s nim; zachem tebe moj stih, Kogda ty sam v rascvete yunyh dnej, Vo vseoruzh'e prelestej svoih? Devich'i raspuskayutsya sady, Gde dlya tebya ni v chem otkazu net, I mogut poyavit'sya tam plody, Kotorym ustupil by tvoj portret. Sumeet zhizn' tebya zapechatlet', Zatmiv iskusstvo, vremya nizlozhiv; V glazah lyudej ty mozhesh' ucelet', Bez moego pera v gryadushchem zhiv; Otdav sebya, perezhivesh' ty t'mu, Sebe obyazan etim samomu. Sonnet XVII Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say "This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces. So should my papers, yellow'd with their age, Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage And stretched metre of an antique song: But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme. I kto poverit moemu stihu, Tvoj byvshij blesk pytayas' ugadat'? Dopustim, ya pravdiv, kak na duhu, V grobu tvoih dostoinstv ne vidat'. Opisyvat' glaza tvoi reshu, No dazhe esli ya pri etom prav, Mne mogut vozrazit', chto ya greshu, Nebesnoe zemnomu pripisav. Svidetel'stvu poblekshego listka Uchenyj ne doveritsya yunec, Priznav, chto eti bredni starika - Drevnejshej pesni vethij obrazec; Togda napomnit' mog by otprysk tvoj: Ty v nem, kak i v stihe moem, zhivoj. Sonnet XVIII Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. Ne s letnim li tebya sravnit' mne dnem? No krasota milee bez prichud, A v mae my vetrov holodnyh zhdem, I bystro dni pogozhie projdut. CHto holodom sperva povrezhdeno, Potom byvaet vyzhzheno zharoj, I zolotu pobleknut' suzhdeno, I narushaetsya prirodnyj stroj. Neprehodyashchim letom bleshchesh' ty, Ne vedaesh' muchitel'nyh utrat, Leleet vremya divnye cherty, I ne grozit prekrasnomu zakat; Poka dyshat' my budem i smotret', Ne mozhesh' ty s prekrasnym umeret'. Sonnet XIX Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long-Iiv'd phoenix, in her blood; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet's t, And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, To the wide world and all her fading sweets; But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: O! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; Him in thy course untainted do allow For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young. Ty, Vremya, lapy l'vov obezoruzh', Na zemnorodnyh zemlyu natravi, Lesnomu tigru chelyusti razrush' I feniksa sozhgi v ego krovi! Mchis', chereduya radost' i pechal' V neumolimom bege zim i let; Kogda uslad zemnyh tebe ne zhal', Neistovstvuj, no pomni moj zapret: CHasam ne pozvolyaj polosovat' Ty moego lyubimogo chela, Ne smej na nem uzorov risovat', Pust' budet krasota ego cela. Kak hochesh', vprochem, ty mne prekoslov'. Cela v moem stihe moya lyubov'. Sonnet XX A woman's face with nature's own hand painted, Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion; A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted With shifting change, as is false women's fashion: An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; A man in hue all hues in his controlling, Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. And for a woman wert thou first created; Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. Tvoj lik prirodoj zhenstvennoj otmechen; Vladyka, ty vladychica zhelanij, Po-zhenski nezhen ty, no bezuprechen: Izmenchivyh ne znaesh' kolebanij, YAsnee zhenskih glaz tvoi zenicy, Ty celyj mir svetit'sya zastavlyaesh', Net muzhestvu blestyashchemu granicy: CHaruya zhen, muzhej ty osleplyaesh'. Tebya zhenoj priroda sotvorila, Odnako zhe v tebya vlyubilas', vidno, I koe-chem nekstati odarila. Vot ot chego mne bol'no i obidno. Ty zhenshchin dopuskaj k svoim usladam, A dlya menya prebud' zavetnym kladom. Sonnet XXI So is it not with me as with that Muse, Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use And every fair with his fair doth rehearse, Making a couplement of proud compare With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare, That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. O! let me, true in love, but truly write, And then believe me, my love is as fair As any mother's child, though not so bright As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air: Let them say more that like of hearsay well; I will not praise that purpose not to sell. YA ne iz teh, ch'ya muza napokaz Iz vychur stih slagaet naletu I znat' ne hochet neba bez prikras, Krasivost'yu pyatnaya krasotu; Pyshnejshie sravnen'ya gromozdyat, Kak budto by do neba dva shaga. Vot-vot oni s razmahu prigvozdyat K cvetam aprel'skim zvezdy-zhemchuga; Drugie lgut, a ya v lyubvi pravdiv I predpochtu lyubov' moyu sberech', Kak mat' uberegla ee, rodiv. CHto mne do zolotyh nebesnyh svech! V cene moya lyubov' il' ne v cene, Ostalas' by navek ona pri mne. Sonnet XXII My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that doth cover thee, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: How can I then be elder than thou art? O! therefore love, be of thyself so wary As I, not for myself, but for thee will; Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain, Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again. Mne v zerkalo ne strashno posmotret'. Ty molod, znachit, ya v rascvete let, S morshchinami tvoimi mne staret'; V nih smert' moya, ot nih spasen'ya net. Drug nenaglyadnyj, sam ty posudi: Ty otdal serdce mne - prekrasnyj dar! Moe zhe serdce u tebya v grudi. I kak mogu ya byt' pri etom star? Lelej zhe serdce nezhnoe ty nezhno, Kak ya sebya ne ubereg shutya, Kak nyan'ke sleduet berech' prilezhno Boleznennoe robkoe ditya. Ty ne zabud', chto v chayan'e utrat Mne serdce otdal ty ne naprokat. Sonnet XXIII As an imperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might. O! let my looks be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more express'd. O! learn to read what silent love hath writ: To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. Kak plohon'kij akterishka poroj Sposoben rol' ot straha zabyvat', Kak v yarosti bezuderzhnoj geroj Ot boli v serdce mozhet iznyvat', Tak pravdy ya v otchayan'e strashus' I, narushaya strogij ritual, Tebe v lyubvi priznat'sya ne reshus', Kakih by slov krasivyh ni iskal. Nadeyus', ty moih chitatel' knig, Gde kazhdaya toboj zhivet stroka, CHtob, s knigoj grud' moyu otkryv, ty vnik V to, chto sletet' ne mozhet s yazyka. Uchis' chitat' v molchanii moj duh. Pojmi: lyubov' glazam daruet sluh. Sonnet XXIV Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath steel'd, Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, And perspective it is best painter's art. For through the painter must you see his skill, To find where your true image pictur'd lies. Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, They draw but what they see, know not the heart. Tvoj glaz-hudozhnik napisal portret, CH'ya ramka do mogily - grud' moya; Hranit iskusstvo luchshij svoj sekret, Tvoj obraz perspektivoyu taya. V hudozhnike umen'e razglyadi, Kotorym obraz tvoj zapechatlen, On u menya po-prezhnemu v grudi, Tvoimi zhe glazami zasteklen. Tak nezhno predany glaza glazam. Moi tvoyu izobrazhayut sut'; V tvoih svoe zhe serdce vizhu sam, Kak v oknah; solncu v nih by zaglyanut'! Tak serdce ot menya tvoe taya, Glazami dvizhet zhivopis' moya. Sonnet XXV Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marigold at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foiled, Is from the book of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toiled: Then happy I, that love and am beloved, Where I may not remove nor be removed. Puskaj svoej zvezdoj gorditsya tot, Kto titulami bleshchet sred' vel'mozh; A ya sud'boj lishen takih vysot, I dlya menya drugoj udel horosh. Uyutno procvetat' vremenshchikam, Kak barhatcam u solnca na glazah; No sdastsya solnce hmurym oblakam, I ot cvetov ostanetsya lish' prah. Voitel', pobezhdavshij ves' svoj vek, Srazhen'e v zhizni proigrav odno, Zabven'ya rokovogo ne izbeg: Emu vospryanut' snova ne dano. Moej sud'be privyk ya doveryat'. Krome lyubvi, mne nechego teryat'. Sonnet XXVI Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, To thee I send this written embassage, To witness duty, not to show my wit: Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it: Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, Points on me graciously with fair aspect, And puts apparel on my tottered loving, To show me worthy of thy sweet respect: Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me. Lyubvi moej derzhavnyj syuzeren! Pozvol' posredstvom etogo pis'ma Zapechatlet' moj dobrovol'nyj plen: Moj v etom dolg, a ne igra uma. Moj dom velik, a ya umom ubog, I shlyu k tebe ya pomysly nagie; Voobrazhen'em ty odin by mog Ih oblachit' v naryady dorogie. Kakaya by zvezda ni provozhala Menya v siyayushchuyu vysotu, Pobedu lish' by nezhnost' oderzhala, Mne v nishchete daruya krasotu. Greh govorit' mne o lyubvi s toboyu, Poka tebya v sebe ya ne otkroyu. Sonnet XXVII Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind, when body's work's expired: For then my thoughts - from far where I abide - Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do seej Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new. Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for myself, no quiet find. Ustalym telom ya hochu prilech'; Pristanishche moe - moya postel', A mysli v golove vzyskuyut vstrech S toboj, moya edinstvennaya cel'. V tvoyu obitel' mysl' moya speshit, Revnivaya, ne znayushchaya sna; Glaza tarashchu, t'ma menya strashit: Slepomu den' i noch' ona vidna. V moem voobrazhen'e tvoj portret, Lish' ten' tvoya, no moj nezryachij vzor Staruhe Nochi darit samocvet; Omolodil ee takoj ubor. Dnem telo ustaet, a dlya dushi Uspokoen'ya net v nochnoj tishi. Sonnet XXVIII How can I then return in happy plight, That am debarred the benefit of rest? When day's oppression is not eas'd by night, But day by night and night by day oppress'd, And each, though enemies to cither's reign, Do in consent shake hands to torture me, The one by toil, the other to complain How far I toil, still farther off from thee. I tell the day, to please him thou art bright, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night, When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make griefs length seem stronger. Kak mne k trudam v dnevnoj vernut'sya svet, Kogda mne noch' pokoya ne daet? Noch' mne vredit, i den' prinosit vred, I den' i noch' odin i tot zhe gnet. Mezhdu soboj vedushchie vojnu, Oni rukopozhat'em splocheny. Meshaet noch' celitel'nomu snu; Den' mne sulit muchitel'nye sny. A ya pytayus' dnyu pol'stit' v otvet, I, v oblakah priznav tvoe vliyan'e, YA nochi govoryu, chto, esli net Zvezd v nebe, u nee tvoe siyan'e. No chto ni den', moya pechal' dlinnee, I chto ni noch', ona eshche sil'nee. Sonnet XXIX When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. Kogda glumitsya nado mnoyu rok I ya, izgoj, nastol'ko oskudel, CHto dokrichat'sya do nebes ne smog, Lish' proklinaya zhalkij svoj udel, Kotoromu gotov ya predpochest' Roskoshestvo talantov i zaslug, Naklikavshih ugodlivuyu lest', CHtob mnozhilis' poklonniki vokrug, ZHelaniya takie prezirayu, Ocenivaya sobstvennyj udel; Kak zhavoronok, v nebe nabirayu YA vysotu, v hvalebnyh pesnyah smel. Poka, lyubim toboj, tebya lyublyu, Zavidovat' mne stydno korolyu. Sonnet XXX When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restor'd and sorrows end. Kogda vospominaniya na sud Zovu kak na pominki ya, kogda Utraty snova prigovora zhdut, A zhalost', kak i vstar', sud'be chuzhda, Togda v slezah nel'zya ne potonut' Glazam, hot' slez ne znal ya do sih por; Druzej, davno umershih, ne vernut', Lish' prezhnij vozvrashchaetsya ukor. Za nim bylye skorbi po pyatam, Styd s nimi, kak rodimoe pyatno; Prihoditsya platit' mne po schetam, Kotorye oplacheny davno. No chto mne vse utraty, esli vdrug YA nenarokom vspomnyu: ty moj drug. Sonnet XXXI Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead; And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, As interest of the dead, which now appear But things remov'd that hidden in thee lie! Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, Who all their parts of me to thee did give, That due of many now is thine alone: Their images I lov'd, I view in thee, And thou (all they) hast all the all of me. V tvoej grudi bien'e vseh serdec, Kotorye utrachennymi mnil YA, pripisav im gorestnyj konec, Uverivshis', chto ya ih shoronil. A skol'ko slez iz-za moih poter' YA prolil, mertvyh vse eshche lyubya; Ko mne vernulis' vse oni teper': Vselilis' mertvye moi v tebya. Mogila ty. V tebe ya uznayu Vseh teh, kogo teryal do sej pory; Vmestil naveki ty lyubov' moyu, Komu, kak ne tebe, moi dary. Vse te, kogo lyubil ya, - eto ty; V tvoih chertah ya vizhu ih cherty. Sonnet XXXII If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bett'ring of the time, And though they be outstripped by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men. O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: "Had my friend"s Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought, To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'. Kogda by posle pohoron moih, Ponyav, na chto obrek neutolennyj Moj pyl menya, perechital ty stih, Kotoryj napisal v tebya vlyublennyj, K stiham ty snishozhden'e proyavi; So vremenem iskusnej rifmovat' Nauchatsya, zato moej lyubvi Posmertnoj ne zatmit' i ne prervat'. I ty podumaj ne bez torzhestva: "Pokojnik byl ne hudshij uchenik. Bud' zhiv moj drug, on v tajny masterstva Novejshego s drugimi by pronik. Oni priobreli horoshij slog, A on lyubov'yu vremya prevozmog". Sonnet XXXIII Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: Even so my sun one early morn did shine, With all triumphant splendour on my brow; But out, alack, he was but one hour mine, The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. Uvidel, kak vershinam gornym l'stit Svoim siyan'em utro kazhdyj raz, Luga celuet, reki zolotit Alhimiej svoih nebesnyh glaz; No v nebesah doroga daleka, I, predveshchaya sumrachnyj zakat, Siyan'e dnya pyatnayut oblaka Sredi drugih gubitel'nyh utrat. Kak na rassvete solncu moemu Predvidet', chto ono obrecheno I chto do pogruzheniya vo t'mu Postydnoj budet mgloj omracheno? Grozit svetilu v nebesah durnoe. Za chto zhe solnce mne hulit' zemnoe? Sonnet XXXIV Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak, That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offence's cross. Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. Zachem ty yasnyj den' mne posulil I bez plashcha menya otpravil v put', CHtob s neba dozhd' potom holodnyj lil I mne durnuyu mglu prishlos' vdohnut'? Ty moego kasaesh'sya lica Siyaniem vrachuyushchim svoim, No esli iscelyayutsya serdca, Po-prezhnemu pozor neizlechim. Puskaj obidchik sam teper' skorbit, Ne legche oskorblennomu nesti Tyazhelyj krest muchitel'nyh obid, Hot' oskorbitel' govorit: "Prosti!" No tak tvoya sleza mne doroga, CHto vse iskupyat eti zhemchuga. Sonnet XXXV No more be grieved at that which thou hast done: Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud: Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. All men make faults, and even I in this, Authorizing thy trespass with compare, Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are; For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense, Thy adverse party is thy advocate, And "gainst myself a lawful plea commence: Such civil war is in my love and hate, That I an accessary needs must be, To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. Bylogo popustu ne beredyat. V protochnom serebre taitsya gryaz'. Zatmen'ya solncu i lune vredyat, CHerv' pakostit, v buton cvetka vnedryas'. Ni v chem tebya ne smeyu obvinit'; Sam za tebya gotov ya postradat'; Sebya predpochitayu ochernit', Lish' by tebya, lyubimyj, opravdat'. Ne poddaetsya chuvstvennost' vrazhde; Protivnica moya - tvoya vina, I ya zhe tvoj zashchitnik na sude: Lyubov' moya - grazhdanskaya vojna, Obkradennyj sladchajshim iz vorov, YA sam emu potvorstvovat' gotov. Sonnet XXXVI Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one: So shall those blots that do with me remain, Without thy help, by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Though in our lives a separable spite, Which though it alter not love's sole effect, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Lest my bewailed guilt s