Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Shir, clenge jour cuntrie of thir cruell crymis,

Adultries, witchcraftis, incests, sakeles bluid;

Delay not, bot as David did betymis,

Jour company of such men soon secluid.

Out with the wicked; — garde jou with the gude;

Of mercy and of judgment sey to sing.

Quhen je suld stryk, I wald je vnderstude;

Quhen je suld spair, I wish je were bening.

Chuse godly counsel, leirne to be a king.

Beir not thir burthenis longer on jour bak.

Jumpe not with justice for no kynd of thing.

To just complantis gar gude attendance tak.

Thir bluidy sarks cryis alwayis in jour eiris:

Prevent the plague that presently appeirs.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Ha! lytill dog, in happy pairt thou crap,

If thou had skill thy happynes to spy,

That secreit in my ladyis armis may ly,

And sleip so sueitly in hir lovely lap.

Bot I, alace! in wrechednes me wrap,

Becaus ouer weill my misery knou I,

For that my jouth to leirne I did apply;

My ouer grit skill hes maid my oune mishap.

Vhy haif I not, O God, als blunt a braine

As he that daylie worbleth in the wyne,

Or to mak faggots for his fuid is fane?

Lyk as I do I suld not die and duyn:

My pregnant spreit, the hurter of my harte,

Lyk as it does, suld not persave my smarte.

My best belouit brother of the craft,

God! if je kneu the stait that I am in!

Thoght je be deif, I knou je ar not daft,

Bot kynd aneugh to any of jour kin;

If je bot sau me, in this winter win,

With old bogogers, hotching on a sped,

Draiglit in dirt, vhylis wat evin to the skin,

I trou thair suld be tears or we tua shed.

Bot maist of all, that hes my bailis bred,

To heir hou je, on that syde of the mure,

Birlis at the wyne, and blythlie gois to bed;

Forjetting me, pure pleuman, I am sure.

So, sillie I, opprest with barmie juggis,

Invyis jour state, that’s pouing Bacchus luggis.

Sir Icarus, jour sonet I haiv sene,

Nocht ignorant vhose bolt that bag come fro.

Je lent jour name to feght against jour frene,

Till one durst neuir avou him self my fo.

I mak a vou — and I heir ony mo

Such campillmuts, je better hold jou still.

Je crak so crouse, I ken, becaus je’r tuo;

Bot I am dour, and dou not want my will.

Grou I campstarie, it may drau to ill;

Thairfore it’s good in tyme that we wer shed.

My Bee’s aloft, and daggit full of skill:

It getts corne drink, sen Grissall toke the bed.

Come on, good gossopis; let vs not discord;

With Johne and George je must convoy my Lord.