are undone,

Their Fortunes fail, and all is gone,

Rope makers, only live in hopes,

To have good trading, for their Ropes,

And Glovers thrive, by Round-heads Ears,

When Charles returns, with’s Cavaliers, Cavaliers.

Генри Болд (1627–1683)

Сдача Оксфорда во время Гражданской войны

Я истинных мужей хвалю,

Кто сердцем верен королю;

Пусть мы пеняем на судьбу,

За Божье дело длим борьбу.

Уныние, не будь примером!

Но плач идет по кавалерам, кавалерам…

Теперь по городу всегда

Гуляет образин орда,

Их дуболомами зови,

Не будь подонки все в крови;

Но скажут те, кто той же веры:

«Нет мужа, кроме кавалера, кавалера…»

Несчастье для прекрасных дам —

Пророчит Шиптон[23] горе вам,

Стенайте, что теперь забыт

Хранимый встарь девичий стыд,

И слезы лейте выше меры:

«Ах, где вы, где вы, кавалеры, кавалеры…»

Умолк священников синклит,

Во мраке Божий храм лежит,

В загоне вера в Божество —

Апокриф, больше ничего.

Рабам потребны званья пэров,

А Оксфорд кличет кавалеров, кавалеров…

Средь горожан тоска взросла —

Не стало больше ремесла,

Один веревочник, ей-ей,

Товару сбыт найдет для шей

Круглоголовых изуверов —

Ждем короля и кавалеров, кавалеров…

Перевод А. Серебренникова

Katherine Philips (1631/2 — 1664)

Epitaph On Her Son H[ector] P[hilips]

What on Earth deserves our trust?

Youth and beauty both are dust.

Long we gathering are with pain,

What one moment calls again.

Seven years childless marriage past,

A son, a son is born at last;

So exactly limbed and fair,

Full of good spirits, mien, and air,

As a long life promised,

Yet, in less than six weeks dead.

Too promising, too great a mind

In so small room to be confined:

Therefore, fit in Heaven to dwell,

He quickly broke the prison shell.

So the subtle alchimist,

Can’t with Hermes’ seal resist

The powerful spirit’s subtler flight,

But t’will bid him long good night.

So the Sun if it arise

Half so glorious as his eyes,

Like this infant, takes a shroud,

Buried in a morning cloud.

On the Welsh Language

If honor to an ancient name be due,

Or riches challenge it for one that’s new,

The British language claims in either sense

Both for its age, and for its opulence.

But all great things must be from us removed,

To be with higher reverence beloved.

So landskips which in prospects distant lie,

With greater wonder draw the pleasèd eye.

Is not great Troy to one dark ruin hurled?

Once the fam’d scene of all fighting world.

Where’s Athens now, to whom Rome learning owes,

And the safe laurels that adorned her brows?

A strange reverse of fate she did endure,

Never once greater, than she’s now obscure.

Even Rome her self can but some footsteps show

Of Scipio’s times, or those of Cicero.

And as the Roman and the Grecian state,

The British fell, the spoil of time and fate.

But though the language hath the beauty lost,

Yet she has still some great remains to boast.

For ’twas in that, the sacred bards of old,

In deathless numbers did their thoughts unfold.

In groves, by rivers, and on fertile plains,

They civilized and taught the listening swains;

Whilst with high raptures, and as great success,

Virtue they clothed in music’s charming dress.

This Merlin spoke, who in his gloomy cave,

Even Destiny her self seemed to enslave.

For to his sight the future time was known,

Much better than to others is their own;

And with such state, predictions from him fell,

As if he did decree, and not foretell.

This spoke King Arthur, who, if fame be true,

Could have compelled mankind to speak it too.

In this once Boadicca valor taught,

And spoke more nobly than her soldiers fought:

Tell me what hero could be more than she,

Who fell at once for fame and liberty?

Nor could a greater sacrifice belong,

Or to her children’s, or her country’s wrong.

This spoke Caractacus, who was so brave,

That to the Roman fortune check he gave:

And when their yoke he could decline no more,

He it so decently and nobly wore,

That Rome her self with blushes did believe,

A Britain would the law of honor give;

And hastily his chains away she threw,

Lest her own captive else should her subdue.

Кэтрин Филипс (1631/2 — 1664)

Эпитафия своему сыну Гектору Филипсу

Есть ли толк в земных делах?

Красота и юность — прах.

Только к счастью ты привык —

Боль вернется через миг.

Брак бездетным был семь лет,

Сын родился — краше нет,

Крепок был, румян, пригож,

Нравом лучше не найдешь,

Был наградою для нас,

Через шесть недель угас.

Столь чудесному уму

Мир напоминал тюрьму;

Он, достойный жить в раю,

Бросил скорлупу свою.

И Гермесова печать[24]

Не смогла бы удержать

Вольный дух, летящий прочь.

Долго будет длиться ночь;

Солнце, в свой рассветный час

Ты тусклее ясных глаз,

Облаком себя укрой,

Как могильной пеленой.

Перевод А.