Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах (билингва)

The rushing rivers that do run,
The valleys sweet, adorned new,
That leans their sides against the sun,
With flowers fresh of sundry hue,
Both ash and elm, and oak so high,
Do all lament my woeful cry.

While winter black, with hideous storms

Doth spoil the ground of summer’s green,
While springtime sweet the leaf returns
That late on tree could not be seen,
While summer burns, while harvest reigns,
Still, still, do rage my restless pains.

No end I find in all my smart,

But endless torment I sustain
Since first, alas, my woeful heart
By sight of thee was forced to plain.
Since that I lost my liberty,
Since that thou mad’st a slave of me,

My heart that once abroad was free,

Thy beauty hath in durance brought.
Once reason ruled and guided me,
And now is wit consumed with thought;
Once I rejoiced above the sky,
And now for thee, alas, I die;

Once I rejoiced in company,

And now my chief and whole delight
Is from my friends away to fly
And keep alone my wearied sprite:
Thy face divine and my desire
From flesh hath me transformed to fire.

O Nature, thou that first did frame

My lady’s hair of purest gold,
Her face of crystal to the same,
Her lips of precious ruby’s mould,
Her neck of alablaster white,
Surmounting far each other wight,

Why didst thou not that time devise?

Why didst thou not foresee before
The mischief that thereof doth rise,
And grief on grief doth heap with store,
To make her heart of wax alone,
And not of flint and marble stone?

O lady, show thy favour yet,

Let not thy servant die for thee;
Where rigour ruled, let mercy sit;
Let pity conquer cruelty.
Let not disdain, a fiend of hell,
Possess the place where grace should dwell.

Going towards Spain

Farewell, thou fertile soil,
that Brutus first out found,
When he, poor soul, was driven clean
from out his country ground;
That northward lay’st thy lusty sides
amid the raging seas,
Whose wealthy land doth foster up
thy people all in ease,
While others scrape and cark abroad,
their simple food to get,
And seely souls take all for good
that cometh to the net,
Which they with painful pains do pinch
in barren burning realms,
While we have all without restraint
among thy wealthy streams.
O blessed of God, thou pleasant isle,
where wealth herself doth dwell,
Wherein my tender years I passed,
I bid thee now farewell.
For fancy drives me forth abroad,
and bids me take delight
In leaving thee and ranging far,
to see some stranger sight,
And saith I was not framed here
to live at home with ease,
But passing forth for knowledge sake
to cut the foaming seas.

Барнаби Гудж (1540–1594)