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

Prometheus when first from heaven high
He brought dowe fire, ‘ere then on earth not seen,
Fond of Delight, a Satyr standing by
Gave it a kiss, as it like Sweet had been.
Feeling forthwith the other’s burning power,
Wood with the smart, with shouts and shreaking shrill,
He sought his ease in river, field and bower,
But for the time his grief went with him still.
So silly I, with that unwonted sight
In human shape, an angel from above,
Feeding mine eyes, th’impressione there did light,
That since I rest and run as pleaseth Love.
The difference is, the Satyr’s lips, my heart —
He for a time, I evermore, — have smart.

* * *

The lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall,
The fly her spleen, the little spark his heat,
And slender hairs cast shadows though but small,
And bees have stings although they be not great.
Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs,
And love is love in beggars and in kings.

Where waters smoothest run, deep are the fords,

The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move:
The firmest faith is in the fewest words,
The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love,
True hearts have eyes and ears no tongues to speak:
They hear, and see, and sigh, and then they break.

The Man of Woe

The man whose thoughts against him do conspire,
One whom mishapp her story doth depaint,
The man of woe, the matter of desire,
Free of the dead, that lives in endless plaint,
His spirit am I, which in this deserte lie,
To rue his case, whose cause I cannot fly.

Despair my name, who never finds relief,

Friended of none, but to myself a foe;
An idle care, maintained by firme belief
That praise of faith shall through my torments grow,
And count those hopes, that others’ hearts do ease,
But base conceits the common sense to please.

The happy good from whence my joys arise;

Nor have I power my sorrows to restrain.
But wail the want, when nought else may suffice;
Whereby my life the shape of death must bear, —
That death which feels the worst that life doth fear.

But what avails with tragical complaint,

Not hoping help, the Furies to awake?
Or why should I the happy minds acquaint
With doleful tunes, their settled peace to shake?
All ye that here behold Infortune’s fare,
May judge no woe may with my grief compare.

Сэр Эдвард Дайер (1543–1607)

Похвала спокойному разуму