Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Beat on, proud billows! Boreas blow!

Swell, curlèd waves, high as Jove’s roof!

Your incivility shall know

That innocence is tempest-proof;

Though surly Nereus roar, my thoughts are calm;

Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail,

A private closet is to me;

Whilst a good conscience is my bail,

And innocence my liberty.

Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,

Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, whilst I wished to be retir’d,

Into this private room was turn’d:

As if their wisdoms had conspir’d

The salamander should be burn’d;

Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish

I am constrain’d to suffer what I wish.

So he that struck at Jason’s life,

Thinking t’ have made his purpose sure,

By a malicious friendly knife

Did only wound him to a cure;

Malice, I see, wants wit; for what it meant,

Mischief, oft-times proves favour in the event.

These manacles upon my arm

I as my sweetheart’s favours wear;

And then to keep mine ankles warm

I have some iron shackles there;

Contentment cannot smart: stoics we see

Make torments easy by their apathy.

Here sin for want of food must starve,

Where tempting objects are not seen;

And these strong walls do only serve

To keep vice out, and keep me in;

Malice of late grows charitable sure,

I’m not committed, but am kept secure.

When once my prince affliction hath,

Prosperity does treason seem;

And to make smooth so rough a path,

I can learn patience from him;

Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart:

When kings want ease, subjects must learn to smart.

What though I cannot see my king

Either in his person or in coin?

Yet contemplation is a thing

Will render what I have not, mine;

My king from me what adamant can part,

Whom I do wear engraven on my heart?

My soul is free as ambient air,

Although my baser part’s immew’d,

Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair

T’ accompany my solitude;

And thought rebellion do my body bind,

My king alone can captivate my mind.

Have you beheld the nightingale,

A pilgrim turned into a cage,

How does she chant her wonted tale

In that her private hermitage?

Even there her charming melody doth prove,

That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.

I am that bird, whom the combine

Thus to deprive of liberty;

But though they do my corpse confine,

Yet maugre hate, my soul is free;

And though immur’d, yet can I chirp and sing

Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.