вот уж третий год

Я немощный слепец: под бременем работ

Потух мой светлый взор. Ни солнца ливень страстный,

Ни звезды, ни луна на синеве прекрасной

Не усладят очей; незрим и мой народ…

Но воли Господа, подателя невзгод,

Не оскорблю хулой безумной и напрасной.

Я слепотой горжусь: надорванный трудом,

Я зренье погубил, свободу защищая,

Я спавших разбудил, и, точно Божий гром,

Глагол мой прогремел, Европу потрясая.

Теперь я одинок, — но с совестью вдвоем,

Как с вожаком, пройду весь мир, не унывая.

Перевод А. Облеухова

О моей усопшей жене

Жена приснилась мне, была чиста, —

      Что Алкестида, отнятая силой

      Гераклом у Танатоса, — могилы

Разнявши мрак, бледна, слаба, свята,

От мук родильных чистой отнята,

      Как ей Закон велит. И видеть милой

      Черты я мог: она не говорила,

Хранила в святости свои уста,

Как чистый дух. Вся в белом, но вуаль

      Скрыть не могла — что было добрым знаком —

      Любовь, заботу, нежность и печаль,

Их не сыскать в лице любом и всяком,

      Но ах! Шагнув ко мне — умчалась в даль,

      И, днём проснувшись, вновь объят я мраком.

Перевод А. Прокопьева

Sir John Suckling (1609–1642)

A Candle

There is a thing which in the light

Is seldom used, but in the night

It serves the maiden female crew,

The ladies, and the good-wives too.

They use to take it in their hand,

And then it will uprightly stand;

And to a hole they it apply,

Where by its goodwill it would die;

It spends, goes out, and still within

It leaves its moisture thick and thin.

A Soldier

I am a man of war and might,

And know thus much, that I can fight,

Whether I am in the wrong or right,

Devoutly.

No woman under heaven I fear,

New oaths I can exactly swear,

And forty healths my brain will bear

Most stoutly.

I cannot speak, but I can do

As much as any of our crew,

And, if you doubt it, some of you

May prove me.

I dare be bold thus much to say,

If that my bullets do but play,

You would be hurt so night and day,

Yet love me.

The Metamorphosis

The little boy, to show his might and power,

Turn’d Io to a cow, Narcissus to a flower;

Transform’d Apollo to a homely swain,

And Jove himself into a golden rain.

These shapes were tolerable, but by the mass

He’s metamorphosed me into an ass.

Upon My Lady Carlisle’s Walking in Hampton Court Garden

thom.: Didst thou not find the place inspired,

And flowers, as if they had desired

No other sun, start from their beds,

And for a sight steal out their heads?

Heardst thou not music when she talked?

And didst not find that as she walked

She threw rare perfumes all about,

Such as bean-blossoms newly out,

Or chafed spices give? —

j. s.: I must confess those perfumes, Tom,

I did not smell; nor found that from

Her passing by ought sprung up new.

The flowers had all their birth from you;

For I passed o’er the self-same walk

And did not find one single stalk

Of anything that was to bring

This unknown after-after-spring.

thom.: Dull and insensible, couldst see

A thing so near a deity

Move up and down, and feel no change?

j. s.: None, and so great, were alike strange;

I had my thoughts, but not your way.

All are not born, sir, to the bay.

Alas! Tom, I am flesh and blood,

And was consulting how I could

In spite of masks and hoods descry

The parts denied unto the eye.

I was undoing all she wore,

And had she walked but one turn more,

Eve in her first state had not been

More naked or more plainly seen.

thom.: ’Twas well for thee she left the place;

There is great danger in that face.

But hadst thou viewed her leg and thigh,

And upon that discovery

Searched after parts that are more dear

(As fancy seldom stops so near),

No time or age had ever seen

So lost a thing as thou hadst been.

j. s.: I must confess those perfumes, Tom,

I did not smell; nor found that from

Her passing by ought sprung up new.

The flowers had all their birth from you;

For I passed o’er the self-same walk

And did not find one single stalk

Of anything that was to bring

This unknown after-after-spring.

Upon T.C. Having the Pox

Troth, Tom, I must confess I much admire

Thy water should find passage through the fire;

For fire and water never could agree:

These now by nature have some sympathy:

Sure then his way he forces, for all know

The French ne’er grants a passage to his foe.