spending all his days,

And change of holy thoughts to make him merry;

Where, when he dies, his tomb may be a bush,

Where harmless robin dwells with gentle thrush.

Роберт Девере, граф Эссекс (1566–1601)

* * *

Направо — Старый Свет, налево — Новый,

И нет границы посуху ни с кем.

Согласья здесь незыблемы основы,

И всякий враг пред Королевой нем.

В ее решеньях не найти изъяна.

В трудах она не покладает рук

И верховодит миром, несмотря на

Бессилие друзей и глупость слуг.

Пускай Атланту много легче было, —

Заслуг ее не описать пером.

Захватчикам она заслон чинила

Своим всепроницающим умом.

Всечасно уроженцы здешних мест

Готовы за нее пойти на крест.

Перевод М. Калинина

* * *

Он с легким сердцем мир покинул сей,

В пустыне подвизавшись, в отдаленье

От общества, от суетных страстей

Обычных смертных. Каждое мгновенье

Усердно он молился Богу сил,

Питался большей частью ежевикой,

К небесному раздумья возносил

И благости исполнился великой.

Означит нам его трудов конец

Надгробье — куст, а на кусту скворец.

Перевод М. Калинина

William Alabaster (1567–1640)

* * *

Jesus is risen from the infernal mire:

But who art thou that say’st Jesus arose?

Such holy words are only fit for those

Whose souls with Christ above the heavens aspire.

But if thou hast not raisèd thy desire

From earth to heaven, but in the world dost close

Thy love which unto heaven thou shouldst dispose,

Say not that Christ is yet ascended higher,

But yet within thy heart he lieth dead,

And by the devil is impoisonèd.

Rejoice not then in vain of his ascent;

For as his glorious rise doth much augment

All good men’s hopes, so unto those that tread

False paths, it is a dreadful argument.

Уильям Алабастер (1567–1640)

* * *

Христос воскрес из мертвых, смерть поправ;

Тебе ли говорить, что Он воскрес?

Лишь те достойны сих святых словес,

Кто рвётся к Богу, небеса избрав.

А если ты не обуздал свой нрав,

Превыше тверди не желал небес,

И в мире дольнем твой порыв исчез —

Не говори: «Воскрес Он». Ты неправ:

Безжизнен в сердце у тебя Христос,

Диавол благодать Его унёс.

Итак, не будь на ликованье скор:

Надежду в чуде праведных собор

Обрёл, а те, чей путь и крив, и кос,

Услышали суровый приговор.

Перевод А. Серебренникова

Henry Wotton (1568–1639)

On His Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light;

You common people of the skies;

What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth Dame Nature’s lays,

Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what ’s your praise,

When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known

Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own;

What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen

In form and beauty of her mind,

By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,

Tell me if she were not designed

The eclipse and glory of her kind?

Upon the Sudden Restraint of the Earl of Somerset, Then Falling From Favour

Dazled thus with height of place,

Whilst our Hopes our wits Beguile,

No man marks the narrow space

‘Twixt a Prison and a Smile.

Then since Fortunes favours fade,

You that in her arms do sleep,

Learn to swim and not to wade;

For the Hearts of Kings are deep.

But if Greatness be so blind,

As to trust in Towers of Air,

Let it be with Goodness lin’d,

That at least the Fall be fair.

Then though darkned you shall say,

When Friends fail and Princes frown,

Vertue is the roughest way,

But proves at night a Bed of Down.

The Character of a Happy Life

How happy is he born and taught

That serveth not another’s will;

Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill;

Whose passions not his masters are;

Whose soul is still prepared for death,

Untied unto the world by care

Of public fame or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Nor vice; who never understood

How deepest wounds are given by praise;

Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumours freed;

Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend;

And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend.

This man is