Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

My flocks feed not,

my ewes breed not,

My rams speed not,

all is amiss.

Love is dying,

faith’s defying,

Heart’s denying

causer of this.

All my merry jigs are quite forgot,

All my lady’s love is lost, God wot.

Where her faith was firmly fixed in love,

There a nay is placed without remove.

One seely cross

wrought all my loss —

O frowning fortune, cursed fickle dame!

For now I see

inconstancy

More in women than in men remain.

In black mourn I,

all fears scorn I,

Love hath forlorn me,

living in thrall.

Heart is bleeding,

all help needing —

O cruel speeding,

freighted with gall.

My shepherd’s pipe can sound no deal,

My wether’s bell rings doleful knell,

My curtal dog that wont to have played

Plays not at all, but seems afraid,

With sighs so deep

procures to weep

In howling wise to see my doleful plight.

How sighs resound

through heartless ground,

Like a thousand vanquished men in bloody fight!

Clear wells spring not,

sweet birds sing not,

Green plants bring not

forth their dye.

Herd stands weeping,

flocks all sleeping,

Nymphs back peeping

fearfully.

All our pleasure known to us poor swains,

All our merry meetings on the plains,

All our evening sport from us is fled,

All our love is lost, for love is dead.

Farewell, sweet lass,

thy like ne’er was

For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan.

Poor Corydon

must live alone,

Other help for him I see that there is none.

As it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,

Trees did grow, and plants did spring;

Every thing did banish moan,

Save the nightingale alone:

She, poor bird, as all forlorn,

Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn,

And there sung the dolefull’st ditty,

That to hear it was great pity:

’Fie, fie, fie!’ now would she cry;

’Tereu, Tereu!’ by and by;

That to hear her so complain,

Scarce I could from tears refrain;

For her griefs, so lively shown,

Made me think upon mine own.

Ah! thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,

None takes pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,

Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:

King Pandion he is dead,

All thy friends are lapp’d in lead,

All thy fellow birds do sing

Careless of thy sorrowing.

Even so, poor bird, like thee,

None alive will pity me.

Whilst as fickle Fortune smil’d,

Thou and I were both beguil’d.

Every one that flatters thee

Is no friend in misery.

Words are easy, like the wind;

Faithful friends are hard to find:

Every man will be thy friend

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;

But if store of crowns be scant,

No man will supply thy want.

If that one be prodigal,

Bountiful they will him call,

And with such-like flattering,

’Pity but he were a king’.

If he be addict to vice,

Quickly him they will entice;

If to women he be bent,

They have him at commandement:

But if Fortune once do frown,

Then farewell his great renown;

They that fawn’d on him before

Use his company no more.

He that is thy friend indeed,

He will help thee in thy need:

If thou sorrow, he will weep;

If thou wake, he cannot sleep:

Thus of every grief in heart

He with thee does bear a part.

These are certain signs to know

Faithful friend from flattering foe.

If music and sweet poetry agree,

As they must needs, the sister and the brother,

Then must the love be great ’twixt thee and me,

Because thou lov’st the one and I the other.

Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch

Upon the lute doth ravish human sense;

Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such,

As passing all conceit, needs no defence.

Thou lov’st to hear the sweet melodious sound

That Phœbus’ lute, the queen of music, makes;

And I in deep delight am chiefly drowned

Whenas himself to singing he betakes:

One god is god of both, as poets feign,

One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.