class="text-author">Перевод А. Серебренникова

John Dowland (1563–1626)

* * *

Come, heavy Sleep the image of true Death;

And close up these my weary weeping eyes:

Whose spring of tears doth stop my vital breath,

And tears my heart with Sorrow’s sigh-swoll’n cries:

Come and possess my tired thought-worn soul,

That living dies, till thou on me be stole.

Come shadow of my end, and shape of rest,

Allied to Death, child to his black-fac’d Night:

Come thou and charm these rebels in my breast,

Whose waking fancies do my mind affright.

O come sweet Sleep; come or I die for ever:

Come ere my last sleep comes, or come never.

* * *

Flow, my tears, fall from your springs!

Exiled for ever, let me mourn;

Where night’s black bird her sad infamy sings,

There let me live forlorn.

Down vain lights, shine you no more!

No nights are dark enough for those

That in despair their last fortunes deplore.

Light doth but shame disclose.

Never may my woes be relieved,

Since pity is fled;

And tears and sighs and groans my weary days, my weary days

Of all joys have deprived.

From the highest spire of contentment

My fortune is thrown;

And fear and grief and pain for my deserts, for my deserts

Are my hopes, since hope is gone.

Hark! you shadows that in darkness dwell,

Learn to contemn light

Happy, happy they that in hell

Feel not the world’s despite.

Джон Дауленд (1563–1626)

* * *

Приди, подобье Смерти, крепкий Сон,

Приди, уйми потоки слез из глаз,

Мне сердце рвет Печали плач и стон,

В рыданьях я терзаюсь всякий час.

Приди, душой погибшей овладей,

Измученной без благости твоей.

Покоя образ, тень могил, приди,

Союзник Смерти, Ночи мрачный сын,

Мятежников смири в моей груди —

Виденья их разгонишь ты один.

Приди, о сладкий сон! Грядет беда —

Приди пред вечным сном — иль никогда!

Перевод А. Серебренникова

* * *

Вам, слезы, я велю излиться!

Навеки изгнан, я скорблю.

Там, где тоску поет ночная птица,

Себя я поселю.

Угасни, луч обманный, ложный!

Ночь вовсе не темна, о нет,

Тем, кто живет в печали невозможной, —

Их унижает свет.

Меня мученья истерзали,

Остался только стон,

И горести, и вздохи тяжких дней, тяжких дней, —

Я радостей лишен.

C высот блаженства и довольства,

Меня низринул рок;

Лишь страх, лишь скорбь средь пустошей, средь пустошей,

От счастья я далек.

О тени, вы в ночи беззвездной

Презрите свет дневной;

Блажен, блажен укрытый адской бездной

От подлости людской.

Перевод А. Серебренникова

Michael Drayton (1563–1631)

The Battle Of Agincourt

Fair stood the wind for France

When we our sails advance,

Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry;

But putting to the main,

At Caux, the mouth of Seine,

With all his martial train,

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,

Furnished in warlike sort,

Marcheth towards Agincourt

In happy hour;

Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopped his way,

Where the French gen’ral lay

With all his power;

Which, in his height of pride,

King Henry to deride,

His ransom to provide

Unto him sending;

Which he neglects the while,

As from a nation vile,

Yet with an angry smile

Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,

Quoth our brave Henry then,

“Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazed.

Yet have we well begun,

Battles so bravely won

Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

“And for myself (quoth he),

This my full rest shall be;

England ne’er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me.

Victor I will remain,

Or on this earth lie slain;

Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

“Poitiers and Cressy tell,

When most their pride did swell,

Under our swords they fell;

No less our skill is

Than when our grandsire great,

Claiming the regal seat,

By many a warlike feat

Lopped the French lilies”.

The Duke of York so dread

The eager vaward led;

With the main Henry sped

Amongst his henchmen.

Exeter had the rear,

A braver man not there;—

O Lord, how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone,

Armour on armour shone,

Drum now to drum did groan,

To hear was wonder;

That with the cries they make

The very earth did shake;

Trumpet to trumpet spake,

Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,

O noble Erpingham,

Which didst the signal aim

To our hid forces!

When from a meadow by,

Like a storm suddenly,

The English archery

Stuck the French horses.