Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Thou Man of Men, who e’re thou art,

That hast a Loyal, Royal Heart,

Despair not! though thy Fortune frown

Our Cause, is Gods, and not our Own;

’Twere sin, to harbour Jealous fears,

The World laments, for Cavaliers, Cavaliers.

Those Things (like Men) that swarm, ith’ Town

Like Motions, wander up, and down;

And were the Rogues, not full of blood,

You’d swear, they men were, made of wood:

The Fellow-feeling-wanton swears,

There are no Men, but Cavaliers, &c.

Ladies, be pearl, their Diamond Eyes,

And curse, Dame Shipton’s Prophecyes

Fearing they never shall be sped,

To wrestle, for a Maiden-head:

But feelingly, with doleful tears,

They sigh, and mourn for Cavaliers, &c.

Our grave Divines, are silenced quite.

Eclipsing thus, our Churches Light:

Religion’s made a mock, and all

Good ways, as Works, Apocryphal:

Our Gallants baffled, slaves made Peers,

While Oxford, weeps for Cavaliers, &c.

Townsmen complain, they 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.