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 wracked, 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.

106

When in the chronicle of wasted time,

I see descriptions of the fairest wights,

And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,

In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights,

Then in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,

I see their antique pen would have expressed,

Even such a beauty as you master now.

So all their praises are but prophecies

Of this our time, all you prefiguring,

And for they looked but with divining eyes,

They had not skill enough your worth to sing:

For we which now behold these present days,

Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

130

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.

144

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,

Which like two spirits do suggest me still,

The better angel is a man right fair:

The worser spirit a woman coloured ill.

To win me soon to hell my female evil,

Tempteth my better angel from my side,

And would corrupt my saint to be a devil:

Wooing his purity with her foul pride.

And whether that my angel be turned fiend,

Suspect I may, yet not directly tell,

But being both from me both to each friend,

I guess one angel in another’s hell.

Yet this shall I ne’er know but live in doubt,

Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

147

My love is as a fever, longing still

For that which longer nurseth the disease,

Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please.

My reason, the physician to my love,

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

Hath left me, and I desperate now approve

Desire is death, which physic did except.

Past cure I am, now reason is past care,

And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,

At random from the truth vainly expressed:

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

Уильям Шекспир (1564–1616)

Сонеты

1

Пусть только наилучшее растёт!

И не погибнет роза красоты,

когда цветы умрут, но в свой черёд

их обессмертят юные цветы.

А ты, влюблённый в собственную стать,

горишь самоубийственным огнём,

в пиру предпочитаешь голодать,

чтоб жертвой стать себе и палачом.

В тебе — весь мир, ты — юности венец,

весны герольд, но свой богатый клад

в себе ты прячешь, милый мой скупец,

и в то же время тратишь невпопад.

Не ешь того, что всем принадлежит,

не то тебя убьёт твой аппетит.

Перевод Ю. Лифшица

2

Когда твой лоб обложат сорок зим

И лягут рвы в красы твоей жнивье,

Весь твой наряд, что днесь неотразим,

Падет в цене, как старое тряпье.

И если спросят, где твоя краса,

Где все богатство дней твоей гульбы,

Чем озаришь ты впалые глаза —

Огнем стыда и жалкой похвальбы?

О, был бы ты рачительней стократ,

Коль мог сказать бы: «Вот дитя мое,

В нем — мой итог и ссуд моих возврат»,

Красу вложив в наследие ее.

Тогда, старея, вновь ты был бы млад,

Зря теплой кровь, в которой чуешь хлад.

Перевод А. Гуревича

18

Сравню ли я тебя с днем светлым лета?

Милей его ты, кротче и нежнее.

Холодный ветер — злобный враг расцвета,

Дни летние могли бы быть длиннее.

Порою око неба слишком знойно,

Иль золото его закрыто тучей,

И красота боится беспокойно

Природы иль случайности летучей.

Твое лишь лето вечное не минет,

И красота не будет скоротечность.

Смерть с похвальбой тень на тебя не кинет,

Когда в стихе изведаешь ты вечность.