Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Weep all ye Mortals who have Tears to spare.

You that have none, continue as you are;

But, if you can’t your usual Temper keep,

You, if you please, may Laugh at those that Weep.

But, Reader, thou may’st justly ask me why,

Or wherefore, I should have you Laugh and Cry;

I’ll tell thee then, if know the Truth you must,

Alas! Alas! White-Hall’s Consumed to Dust;

In Earthly things, Ah! Who would put their Trust?

Tho’I confess, if I may be so bold

To tell to you, what I have oft been told,

’Twas but a wicked Structure whilst it stood,

I always thought ’twould never come to Good!

Most, I believe, will my Opinion hold,

Like some good Wives, ’twas Ugly,and ’twas Old.

Some say it was a Palace of Renown,

But I must say (with Rev’rence to the Crown)

It ne’er looked truly Noble till ’twas down,

As scatter’d Ruins most delightful be,

In whose Disorder we more Beauty see,

Than can be found in Regularity.

Before ’twas burnt, it unregarded stood,

A Shapeless, Homely Pile of Brick and Wood:

But when the Fatal Flames had bore it down,

’Twas Gaz’d at, and Admir’d by all the Town.

Alas ’tis gone! And all that does remain,

Is to Rebuild it finer up again;

Which Politicians say will be the Sequel,

So Laugh or Cry, to me the matter’s equal.

Base and Ignoble Flegm, dull Derby-Ale,

Thou canst o’er none but Brainless Sots prevail;

Chokes them if New, and Sour art if Stale.

Thou drown’st no Care, or dost thou Elevate;

Instead of quenching Drouth, dost Drouth create,

Makes us dull Sots at an expensive rate.

Old English Ale, which Upstart Fops disdain,

Brew’d by our Grandsires, Chear’d the Heart of Man,

Quench’d Drouth with pleasure, and prolong’d their Span.

But thou! Poor Slime, thou art not Ale, for why?

Thou neither Chears the Heart, or Brisks the Eye;

The more we Drink the more we still are Dry.

Rare Fat’ning Swill, to Belly up Lean Guest,

It feeds a Man in six Months to a Beast,

And gives him bulk, for a Church-Ward’n at least.

Puff’d up with thee, Dispirited, Debas’d,

We into Gray’s-Inn reel (O Pump be prais’d)

There Quench that Drouth thy Treacly Dregs have rais’d.

One hearty Draught prepares for Pipe of Funk,

Three Tankards whets my Appetite for Punk,

Four makes me Sick, but Ten won’t make me Drunk.

O’er Nipperkins of thee six Hours I sit,

Till spent my Total, and benum’d my Wit,

Thus nothing have, and just for nothing fit.

Our Wits, or Thoughts, thou never canst advance

Above the Affairs of Poland, or of France:

Wounds, thou’rt a Booby to a Cup of Nantes.

Thou’rt fit for those who are from Troubles free,

Thou Cur’st no Spleen, thou art unfit for me,

I’d’s live almost drink Adam’s Ale as thee.

Thou mak’st us Fat in little time ’tis true,

The same will Swines-Flesh and Potatoes do;

They covet Flesh, not Brains, that follow you.

Thou Noble Ale! Mere Caudle, and unfit

For Men of Care to drink, or Men of Wit;

Poor English Coffee for a plodding Cit.

Guzzle for Carmen, Foggy and unfine,

For nothing fit but to Exhaust our Coin;

Water to Brandy, and small Beer to Wine.

Forgive my drowsy Muse where e’er she nods;

She’s not inspir’d or Tutor’d by the Gods;

She Rhimes o’er Ale, others o’er Wine; that’s odds.

What if you say she’s dull, it’s no great matter,

Gross Muddy Ale’s a heavy Theam for Satyr.

Tom Brown be judge, or honest Ben Bridgwater.