Rapid method of Neo

Et fais paftre sans crainte tes chevreaux Pas trfes loin de la demeure des bergers. —

A la jument, qu’au char du Pharaon L’on attelle, je te compare, ma Ыеп-аппёе.

Belles sont tes joues entre les colliers, Et beau ton cou entre les rangs de perles.

Mais pour toi nous ferons des colliers d’or Parsem6s d’ornements d’argent. —

Mon nard laisse exhaler son parfum Pendant que le Roi reste dans ses chambres.

Comme un bouquet de myrrhe, mon Ыеп-аипё Entre mes seins doucement se repose.

II est pour moi comme une grappe de 1гоёпе Des vignes сё1ёЬгев d’Eng^di. —

Que tu es belle, ma bien-aimde, que tu es belle 1 Tes yeux de colombe me regardent. —

Que tu es beau, que tu es beau, mon Ыеп-аппё! Regarde! la verdure est notre lit. —

Les cёdгes sont les poutres de notre maison, Et les cypr6s en sont les chevrons.

(The Holy Bible. — French version by Louis Segond.)

HAMLET. Act III. Scene I

To be or not to be : that is the question : Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them ? To die : to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep ; To sleep : perchance to dream : ay, there’s the rub ; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause : there’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin ? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover’d country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of ? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought. And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn away, And lose the name of action.

Shakespeare.

SONNET 71

No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled

Fiu sen tim tu pad ta kaprolos No muy dus dal demor de lo pastoros.

Al ipin ke del Faraon al car

So talbar, mi te komparar, libin.

Bela ta vangos sar mede kolanos, Bela ta kol mede rangos de perlos.

Mo po tu nos kolanos d’auro for Trusemenat kon ornelos d’argent. —

E dun lo Roy in sa kamos restar, Ma nardo lar exali sa parfum.

As un bunko de miryo, ma libun Inte ma syenos dulke ripozar.

II sar po mi as un grap de troen De lo celebra vinyos d’Engedih. —

Kan bela, ma libin, kan sar tu bela! Ta okos de kolombin me mirar. —

Kan bela tu, kan bela ma libun! Tu miru! Lo verdeyo sar na bed. —

Lo cedros sar lo travos de na dom E lo cipresos lo roskos en sar.

soliloqo de hamlet

Si о no si, em lo qestyon : sar it plu nobla

Lo fleshos e l’atak subi d’un suert oltraga,

О kontre un ocean de penos preni l’armos,

Ze nili, z’endi ? E dan ?… Dan morti. Dan nur dormi,

Plu nix. Pe un dormo dan se dici ke nun l’endo

Del angosho del kor e del sennuma malos

Ke na karno eredar. Eto sur vere un endo

Vozenda pe enta kor : morti, ya, morti, dormi.

Dormi… Sonyi, ki spar ? Ah, ik vo nos jukat!

Den, nel dormo de mort, e van nos or qitat

Na musha spol, ah, dan, ka sonyos рог ne veni ?

Dete nos ezitar, den ik venar lo dub

Ki prolongi ne far senende na pov viv.

Den ki suporti pur l’afrontos de lo temp :

Torto del opreser, spico del vir orgola,

Afros de kontemnat amor, e de justis

Lo farso, del burist lo rogo, lo pedados

Ke sem dulda merit dal maldigna ricar ?

Mentre kon lo puntel d’un kotilet so pur

Di qitanso a soself ? E ki vur nok ayani,

Tan fardelos ol spal, sub lo pezo suveli

D’un vivo dora e lada… es it no sur pe tim

De somo do na mort, lo noskoprat rejon

Unde ni revenir kelun, rovar na vol

E suporti ne far lo malos ke nos ar

Qam flugi ver los ke nos usnun no konar ?

Ete konshenso far de tot nos nur kodardas,

Lo natura kolor de na prima risolvo

Sub l’ombro palijar de na vil penso, e dete

Na volos divegar da sa koraga korso

E perdar lo nam d’aktado.

Shexpir.

sonet 71

No dolyu vu, van mi mortor, plu long Qam vu lo klok udor, rauka e lugubra, Anunci al mond ke mi ja departir

From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell; Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. O, if, I say, you look upon this verse When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, But let your love even with my life decay; Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone.

Shakespeare.

le vin perdu