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     Perevod V.YAkushkinoj
     Vera  YAkushkina.  Moi ekzersisy. Lirika XVI-XX vekov. Vol'nye perevody s
francuzskogo, nemeckogo i anglijskogo yazykov.
     M., "Moskovskij Parnas", 2005
     OCR Bychkov M.N.
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                                  Sonnet I

                 From fairest creatures we desire increase,
                 That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
                 But as the riper should by time decease,
                 His tender heir might bear his memory:
                 But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
                 Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
                 Making a famine where abundance lies,
                 Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
                 Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
                 And only herald to the gaudy spring,
                 Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
                 And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding:
                    Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
                    To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.


                                  1 sonet

                  Prekrasnym sushchestvam zhelaem povtoren'ya,
                  Vse luchshee v tebe potomok otrazit,
                  Posle konchiny budet prodolzhen'e,
                  Naslednik chutkij pamyat' osvezhit:
                  No ty, lish' v samogo sebya vlyublennyj,
                  Kak ta svecha, chto plamenem pitayas',
                  Sgoraya, ischezaet obrechenno,
                  Samosozhzheniem bessmertiya lishayas'.
                  Ty drevnij mir soboyu ukrashaesh',
                  Vesennej svezhesti i yunosti glashataj,
                  No krasotu bezdarno rastochaesh',
                  I skupost' obernetsya gruboj tratoj:
                     Mir pozhalej, ved' lyubish' lish' sebya,
                     Poglotit mir potomkov i tebya.


                                 Sonnet II

                 When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
                 And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
                 Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now
                 Will be a tottered weed of small worth held:
                 Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
                 Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
                 To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
                 Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
                 How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
                 If thou couldst answer, 'This fair child of mine
                 Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
                 Proving his beauty by succession thine.
                    This were to be new made when thou art old,
                    And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.


                                  2 sonet

                  Kogda osadyat sorok zim chelo,
                  Transhei krasotu izborozdyat,
                  Gordec prezritel'nyj, ch'e vremya otcvelo,
                  Tryasushchijsya, sebe ne budesh' rad:
                  I na vopros, gde krasota bylaya,
                  Gde vse sokrovishcha, chto prezhde ukrashali,
                  Smolchish', provalom staryh glaz vziraya,
                  Stydyas' pohval, chto tebe prezhde istochali.
                  No kak podarok budet mirozdan'yu,
                  Kogda otvetish': "Vot moe ditya",
                  V itoge, eto budet opravdan'em
                  I dokazatel'stvom. Togda tebya prostyat.
                     Speshi podobnogo sozdat', togda stareya,
                     On krov' ostyvshuyu svoim teplom sogreet.


                                 Sonnet III

               Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest,
               Now is the time that face should form another,
               Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
               Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
               For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
               Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
               Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
               Of his self-love to stop posterity?
               Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
               Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
               So thou through windows of thine age shall see,
               Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
                  But if thou live, rememb'red not to be,
                  Die single, and thine image dies with thee.


                                  3 sonet

                    Glyan' v zerkalo, i skazhet otrazhen'e,
                    Tebe podobnoe pora uzhe sozdat',
                    Inache sovershish' ty prestuplen'e,
                    Lishish' blazhenstva budushchuyu mat'.
                    Najdetsya li krasavica, ch'e lono
                    K takomu paharyu ostanetsya bezdushnym?
                    I est' li tot, kto ne smirit svoj gonor,
                    K potomstvu otnesetsya ravnodushno?
                    I vidit mat', kak v zerkale, v tebe
                    Aprelya nezhnogo prekrasnoe byloe;
                    Tak ty v svoem stareyushchem okne
                    Skvoz' set' morshchin uvidish' vremya zolotoe.
                       No esli hochesh' zhit', ne vspominaya,
                       Umri odin, potomkov umertvlyaya.


                                 Sonnet IV

                 Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
                 Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
                 Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
                 And being frank she lends to those are free:
                 Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
                 The bounteous largess given thee to give?
                 Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
                 So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
                 For having traffic with thyself alone,
                 Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive:
                 Then how when Nature calls thee to be gone,
                 What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
                    Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
                    Which used lives th'executor to be.


                                  4 sonet

                  Ty krasoty svoej, bezumnyj rastochitel',
                  Nu pochemu vse tratish' na sebya?
                  Priroda vremennyj i mudryj popechitel',
                  Tem shchedro v dolg daet, kto otdaet lyubya:
                  Skupec prelestnyj, chto zloupotreblyaesh',
                  SHCHedrotami ne delish'sya svoimi?
                  Bescel'nyj rostovshchik, chto sokryvaesh'
                  Svoyu sumu bol'shuyu pred drugimi?
                  S samim soboyu sovershaesh' oborot,
                  Obkradyvaya tem sebya sil'nee:
                  Kogda tebya Priroda zaberet,
                  Kak opravdaesh'sya v rastrate pered neyu?
                     Tvoej krase zhit' ne dano toboj,
                     Ee v mogilu unesesh' s soboj.


                                  Sonnet V

                Thouse hours that with gentle work did frame
                The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell
                Will play the tyrants to the very same,
                And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
                For never-resting time leads summer on
                To hideous winter and confounds him there,
                Sap checkeed with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
                Beauty o'ersnowed and bareness every where:
                Then were not summer's distillation left
                A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
                Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
                Nor it nor no remembrance what it was.
                   But flowers distilled though they with winter meet,
                   Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.


                                  5 sonet

                    Speshat chasy, menyaya vse vokrug
                    I privlekaya voshishchennyj vzor
                    S zhestokost'yu igrivoj mogut vdrug
                    Obezobrazit' radostnyj prostor;
                    I vremya nikomu ne obmanut',
                    Smertel'nyj hlad pogubit krasotu,
                    Istochit sily, l'dom pokroet sut',
                    Pod snegom spryachet zhizni nagotu:
                    I lish' flakona nezhnyj aromat
                    Vospominan'ya darit o teple,
                    Lishish'sya krasoty svoej stokrat,
                    Potomstva ne ostaviv na zemle.
                       V cvetah, s zimoj vstrechayas', gibnet radost',
                       Taya v bezmolvii dushi bessmertnoj sladost'.


                                 Sonnet VI

                 Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
                 In thee thy summer, ere thou be distilled:
                 Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
                 With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed.
                 That use is not forbidden usury
                 Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
                 That's for thyself to breed another thee,
                 Or ten times happier be it ten for one;
                 Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
                 If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
                 Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
                 Leaving thee living in posterity?
                    Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair
                    To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.


                                  6 sonet

                     Ne pozvolyaj zime neumolimoj
                     Tvoe teplo iyul'skoe sgubit':
                     V drugoj dushe tvoj duh neugasimyj
                     Neobhodimo tajno sohranit'.
                     Ispol'zovat' procent takoj ne greh,
                     S lihvoj vernetsya schast'e obreten'ya,
                     I dlya tebya nagradoj, i dlya teh,
                     Kto stanet tvoim divnym povtoren'em.
                     I vremya schast'ya burno potechet,
                     Desyatki raz tvoj oblik prodolzhaya:
                     CHto mozhet sdelat' smert', kogda pojmet,
                     CHto ty ushel, potomstvo ostavlyaya?
                        Iskusstvo li smert' milo pozabavit', -
                        Vmesto naslednikov, chervej odnih ostavit'.



                                 Sonnet VII

                  Lo in the orient when the gracious light
                  Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
                  Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
                  Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
                  And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,
                  Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
                  Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
                  Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
                  But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
                  Like feeble age he reeleth from the day,
                  The eyes (fore duteous) now converted are
                  From his low tract and look another way:
                     So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,
                     Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.


                                  7 sonet

                     Vzglyani, kogda s vostoka alyj svet
                     Voshodit, yarko zemlyu osveshchaya,
                     S pochteniem sklonyayutsya v otvet,
                     Velichie ego osoznavaya;
                     I podnimayas', vsemi uvazhaem,
                     On molodo idet neutomimo,
                     I vzglyadom smertnye, v molchan'e obozhaya,
                     Soprovozhdayut zolotogo piligrima:
                     No vot, ustalo pokatila kolesnica,
                     Stareya i teryaya estestvo,
                     I drognuli u zritelej resnicy,
                     Drugoe vybiraya bozhestvo:
                        No ty, projdya svoj zhiznennyj zenit,
                        Ostaviv syna, budesh' ne zabyt.


                                 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.


                                  12 sonet

                      Kogda minut poslednih slyshu boj,
                      I vizhu, kak uhodit den' vo mrak,
                      Fialki obessilevshej pokoj,
                      I chernyj lokon, v dymke serebra,
                      Kak osypaetsya besplodnaya listva,
                      CHto prezhde pryatala pod svodami stada,
                      I leto, prevrashchennoe v snopa,
                      Polzet na drogah, kak sedaya boroda:
                      Ot krasoty takoj toska s®edaet,
                      CHto dolzhen ty idti vpered, skvoz' vremya,
                      Kogda ocharovan'e bystro taet,
                      I umirat', kogda rastet inoe plemya,
                         Spasen'ya net, poglotit Vremya v zloj puchine,
                         Potomstvo lish' spaset, kogda on mir pokinet.



                                 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.



                                  21 sonet

                    Net, ya ne tot, kto Muzu privlekaet,
                    CHtoby v stihah krasoty vospevat'
                    Teh, kto iskusstvenno svoj oblik ukrashaet,
                    CHtob mishuroj posredstvennoj blistat',
                    Ne delayu sravneniya retivo
                    S lunoj i solncem, i darami morya,
                    S cvetkom aprel'skim pervym shalovlivym,
                    S nebesnym svodom v nezemnom prostore.
                    YA iskrenen v slovah, v lyubvi bol'shoj,
                    I ver'te mne, moya lyubov' yasna,
                    Kak chahloe ditya dlya materi lyuboj
                    CHudesnym kazhetsya, kak zvezdy v nebesah:
                    Pust' tyagoteet kto-to k vychurnym slovam,
                    Ne budu voshvalyat' ya to, chto ne prodam.


                                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.


                                  22 sonet

                    Ne ubedit menya sedoe otrazhen'e,
                    CHto stal ya star, - s toboyu dni delyu,
                    No esli vdrug v tebe uvizhu izmenen'ya,
                    Iskupit smert' zabyvchivost' moyu:
                    Vse prelesti chudesnye tvoi
                    Teper' dlya serdca moego lish' odeyan'e,
                    Tvoe zhe serdce zdes', v moej grudi.
                    Mogu li starshe byt' prelestnogo sozdan'ya?
                    Bud' ostorozhnee, sebya poberegi,
                    I ya zhivu ved' tol'ko dlya tebya,
                    Kak ya, v grudi ty serdce steregi,
                    Tak nyan'ka berezhet svoe ditya:
                       I ne rasschityvaj, moe vdrug porazyat, -
                       Tvoe ya serdce, ne otdam nazad.


                                Sonnet XXIII

              As an imperfect actor on the stage
              Who with his fear is put besides 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'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might:
              O let my books 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 expressed.
                 O learn to read what silent love hath writ:
                 To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.


                                  23 sonet

                     Kak licedej neopytnyj na scene,
                     CHto rol' svoyu ot uzhasa zabyl,
                     Ili dushi neistovoj dvizhen'e,
                     CH'im gnevom serdce hrupkoe razbil;
                     Tak ya iz straha zabyvayu govorit',
                     Obryad lyubovnyj tochno soblyudaya,
                     I sily chuvstva nachinayut gnit',
                     Pod bremenem lyubvi iznemogaya:
                     Tak pust' zhe budet vzglyad krasnorechiv,
                     Glaza, moi bezmolvnye proroki,
                     Nagrady zhdushchie, ot chuvstva osushiv
                     YAzyk, i on molchit, uzrev chuzhie stroki.
                        CHitat' uchites', esli vdrug lyubov' nema:
                        Glazami slyshat' - svojstvo tonkogo uma.


                                Sonnet XXIV

               Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
               Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
               My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
               And perspective it is the painter's art,
               For through the painter must you see his skill
               To find where your true image pictured 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.


                                  24 sonet

                     Vlyublennyj vzglyad hudozhnika zatmil
                     I nabrosal na serdce nezhnyj lik;
                     Kartine - ya bagetom posluzhil,
                     I ochertan'ya tvorchestva postig,
                     V dushe moej uvidish' obraz svoj,
                     Ty istinu postignesh' tol'ko tam,
                     V moej grudi on, budto v masterskoj,

                     Glaza tvoi, kak okna v etot hram.
                     Vzglyani, dlya nashih glaz kakoj duet:
                     Moi glaza tvoj obraz otrazhayut,
                     CHerez tvoi glaza, kak cherez okna svet
                     CHtob na tebya vzglyanut', tihon'ko pronikayut.
                        No vse zh glazam ne dostaet iskusstva,
                        Risuyut to, chto vidyat, no ne chuvstva.

Last-modified: Tue, 10 Jan 2006 13:09:56 GMT
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