"Вильям Шекспир. Сонеты (Пер.С.И.Турухтанова) " - читать интересную книгу автора

With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair
Which this (Time's pencil) or my pupil pen
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair
Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
To give away your self, keeps your self still,
And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.


16


Ужели нас ничто не защитит
От Времени - убийцы тирании
И эти строчки ломкие, сухие
И есть тот самый лучший щит?

В зените лет, пока ты жизни рад,
Сады покорно ждут трудов твоих,
Чтоб дать плоды - прекрасный виноград,
Что весь, как ты, а не бесплодный стих.

Завещано нам в детях воплощаться.
Ни мэтра кисть, ни карандаш пока
Твой облик не способны, как ни тщатся
Потомкам донести через века.

Дари себя в зените юных лет -
И сам в веках напишешь свой портрет.


XVII


Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts:
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say this poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.
So should my papers (yellowed with their age)
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage,
And stretched metre of an antique song.