Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Since ’tis th’ Intent and Business of the Stage,

To copy out the Follies of the Age;

To hold to every Man a faithful Glass,

And shew him of what Species he’s an Ass:

I hope the next that teaches in the School,

Will shew our Author he’s a scribbling Fool.

And that the Satire may be sure to bite,

Kind Heav’n! inspire some venom’d Priest to write,

And grant some ugly Lady may indite.

For I wou’d have him lash’d, by Heavens! I wou’d,

Till his Presumption swam away in Blood.

Three Plays at once proclaim a Face of Brass,

No matter what they are; That’s not the Case —

To write three Plays, e’en that’s to be an Ass.

But what I least forgive, he knows it too,

For to his Cost he lately has known you —

Experience shews, to many a Writer’s Smart,

You hold a Court where Mercy ne’er had part;

So much of the old Serpent’s Sting you have,

You love to Damn, as Heaven delights to Save.

In foreign Parts, let a bold Volunteer,

For Public Good, upon the Stage appear,

He meets ten thousand Smiles to dissipate his Fear.

All tickle on th’ adventuring young Beginner,

And only scourge th’ incorrigible Sinner;

They touch indeed his Faults, but with a Hand

So gentle, that his Merit still may stand;

Kindly they buoy the Follies of his Pen,

That he may shun ’em when he writes again.

But ’tis not so in this good-natur’d Town,

All’s one, an Ox, a Poet, or a Crown;

Old England’s Play was always knocking down.