Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

My life is measur’d by this glass, this glass

By all those little sands that thorough pass,

See how they press, see how they strive, which shall

With greatest speed and greatest quickness fall.

See how they raise a little mount, and then

With their own weight do level it again.

But when th’ have all got thorough, they give o’er

Their nimble sliding down, and move no more.

Just such is man, whose hours still forward run,

Being almost finish’d ere they are begun;

So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we,

That ere we’re ought at all, we cease to be.

Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly,

And while we sleep, what do we else but die?

How transient are our joys, how short their day!

They creep on towards us, but fly away.

How stinging are our sorrows! where they gain

But the least footing, there they will remain.

How groundless are our hopes, how they deceive

Our childish thoughts, and only sorrow leave!

How real are our fears! they blast us still,

Still rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;

How senseless are our wishes, yet how great!

With what toil we pursue them, with what sweat!

Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see,

Like children crying for some Mercury.

This gapes for marriage, yet his fickle head

Knows not what cares wait on a marriage bed:

This vows virginity, yet knows not what

Loneness, grief, discontent, attends that state.

Desires of wealth another’s wishes hold,

And yet how many have been choak’d with gold?

This only hunts for honour, yet who shall

Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall.

This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought?

With many a sleepless night, and racking thought.

This needs will travel, yet how dangers lay

Most secret ambuscados in the way?

These triumph in their beauty, though it shall

Like a pluck’d rose or fading lily fall.

Another boasts strong arms: ’las! giants have

By silly dwarfs been dragg’d unto their grave.

These ruffle in rich silk: though ne’er so gay,

A well-plum’d peacock is more gay than they,

Poor man! what art? A tennis-ball of error,

A ship of glass toss’d in a sea of terror;

Issuing in blood and sorrow from the womb,

Crawling in tears and mourning to the tomb:

How slippery are thy paths! How sure thy fall!

How art thou nothing, when th’art most of all!

Romira, stay,

And run not thus like a young Roe away,

No enemie

Pursues thee (foolish girle) tis onely I,

I’ll keep off harms,

If thou’lt be pleas’d to garrison mine arms;

What dost thou fear

I’ll turn a Traitour? may these Roses here

To palenesse shred,

And Lilies stand disguised in new Red,

If that I lay

A snare, wherein thou wouldst not gladly stay;

See see the Sunne

Does slowly to his azure Lodging run,

Come sit but here

And presently he’ll quit our Hemisphere,

So still among

Lovers, time is too short or else too long;

Here will we spin

Legends for them that have Love Martyrs been,

Here on this plain

We’ll talk Narcissus to a flowr again;

Come here, and chose

On which of these proud plats thou would repose,

Here maist thou shame

The rusty Violets, with the Crimson flame

Of either cheek,

And Primroses white as thy fingers seek,

Nay, thou maist prove

That mans most Noble Passion is to Love.