Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Drink to-day, and drown all sorrow,

You shall perhaps not do it to-morrow.

Best, while you have it, use your breath;

There is no drinking after death.

Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit;

There is no cure ’gainst age but it.

It helps the headache, cough, and tisic,

And is for all diseases physic.

Then let us swill, boys, for our health;

Who drinks well, loves the commonwealth.

And he that will to bed go sober,

Falls with the leaf still in October.

Lay a garland on my hearse,

Of the dismal yew,

Maidens, willow branches bear,

Say I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm

From my hour of birth;

Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth.

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan;

Sorrow calls no time that ’s gone;

Violets plucked the sweetest rain

Makes not fresh nor grow again;

Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;

Fate’s hid ends eyes cannot see;

Joys as winged dreams fly fast,

Why should sadness longer last?

Grief is but a wound to woe;

Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.