Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Methinks ‘tis pretty sport to hear a child,

Rocking a word in mouth yet undefiled.

The tender racket rudely plays the sound,

Which weakly banded cannot back rebound,

And the soft air the softer roof does kiss,

With a sweet dying and a pretty miss,

Which hears no answer yet from the white rank

Of teeth, not risen from their coral bank.

The alphabet is searched for letters soft,

To try a word before it can be wrought,

And when it slides forth, it goes as nice,

As when a man does walk upon the ice.

Setting mine hourglass for a witness by

To measure study as the time did fly:

A ling’ring muse possessed my thinking brain:

My mind was reaching, but in such a vein,

As if my thoughts by thinking brought a sleep,

Wingless and footeless, now like snails did creep,

I eyed my glass, but he so fast did run

That ere I had begun, the hour was done.

The creeping sands with speedy pace were fleet,

Before one reason crept out of my wit.

When I stood still I saw how time did fly.

When my wits ran, time ran, more fast then I,

Stay here, ile change the course, let study pass

And let time study while I am the glass.

What touch ye sands? are little mites so fleet?

Can bodies run so swift which have no feet?

The little world the subject of my muse,

Is an huge task and labour infinite;

Like to a wilderness or masse confuse,

Or to an endless gulf, or to the night,

How many strange Meanders doe I find?

How many paths do turne my straying pen?

How many doubtful twilights make me blind,

Which seek to lim out this strange All of men?

Easy it were the earth to portray out,

Or to draw forth the heaven’s purest frame,

Whose restless course, by order whirls about

Of change and place, and still remains the same,

But how shall men’s, or manner’s form appear,

Which while I write, do change from that they were?

Our fathers did but use the world before

And having used did leave the same to us.

We spill what ever resteth of their store.

What can our heirs inherit but our curse?

For we have sucked the sweet and sap away,

And sowed consumption in the fruitful ground:

The woods and forests clad in rich array,

With nakedness and baldness we confound.

We have defaced the lasting monuments

And caused all honour to have end with us:

The holy temples fell our ravishments.

What can our heirs inherit but our curse?

The world must end, for men are so accursed,

Unless God end it sooner: they will first.

Never so many masters any knew,

And so few gentlemen in such a crew,

Never so many houses, so small spending,

Never such store of coin, so little lending.

Never so many cousins, so few kind.

Goodmorrows plenty, good wills hard to find,

Never so many clerks, ne’er learning less,

Many religions, but least godliness.

Justice is banished, law breeds such strife,

And truth: and why? for swearing is so rife.

Thus in her strength of causes virtue dies,

And vice without a cause still multiplies.