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

Support me, sacred Sisters, for to sing
His praise, vhilk passis the antartik pole.
And fand the futsteppe of the fleing fole,
And from Parnassus spyd the Pegase spring.
The hundreth saxt, by lyne, vnconqueist king,
Quhais knichtlie curage, kindling lyk a cole,
Maks couarts quaik, and hyde thame in a hole:
His brand all Brytan to obey sail bring.
Come, troup of tuinis, about his temple tuyn
Jour laurell leivis with palmis perfytly plet,
Wpon his heid Caesarean to sett.
Immortalije ane nobler nor the Nyne —
A martiall monarch, with Minervas spreit,
That Prince vhilk sail the prophesie compleit.

Of M. J. Sharpe

If gentle blude ingendrit be by baggis.
Then culd I ges vho wer a gentle Jhone;
If he be wysest, with the world that waggis,
Jit culd I wish jou to a wittie one;
If he be all, vha thinks his nichtbours none,
Then surely I suld shau jou vho wer all;
If he be Cæsar, vho doth so suppone,
Then I conjecture vhom I Cæsar call;
If he be sure, vho sueirs and sayis he sall,
Then certainly I wot weill vho wer sure;
If he be firme, vho neuer feirs to fall,
I doubt not then vhose dayis suld lang indure;
Sed quæritur, vhat lau he leivis at leist?
He wald not preich; he can not be a preist.

To the Lords of the Session

My Lords, late lads, nou leidars of our lauis,
Except jour gouns, some hes not worth a grote.
Jour colblak conscience all the cuntrey knauis;
Hou can je live, except je sell jour vote?
Thoght je deny, thair is aneu to note
How je for justice jouglarie hes vsit:
Suppose je say je jump not in a jote,
God is not blind. He will not be abusit.
The tym sail come vhen je sail be accusit,
For mony hundreth je haif herryit heir;
Quhare je sall be forsakin and refusit,
And syn compeld at Plotcok to appeir.
I hope in God at lenth, thoght it be late,
To sie sum sit into dirk hellis gate.

The Poets Apologie to the Kirk of Edinburgh

I wonder of jour Wisdomes, that ar wyse,
That baith miskennis my method and my Muse;
Quhen I invey, such epithets I wse,
That evin Alecto laughing at me lyis.
My trumpets tone is terribler be tuyis
Nor jon couhorne, vhereof je me accuse;
For fra the Fureis me with fyr infuse,
Quhom Bautie byts, he deir that bargan byis;
For if I open wp my anger anes,
To plunge my pen into that stinking Styx,
My tongue is lyk the lyons; vhair it liks,
It brings the flesh, lyk bryrie, fra the banes:
I think it scorne, besyd the skaith and sklander,
To euin an ape with aufull Alexander.

To his Maistres Messane