William Shakespeare 1564 1616 SCENE I A desert

William Shakespeare (1564 -1616)

SCENE I. A desert place. Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches

Sonnet 66 Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And guilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly doctor-like controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

Sonnet 66 Перевод С. Я. Маршака Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And guilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly doctor-like controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. Зову я смерть. Мне видеть невтерпеж Достоинство, что просит подаянья, Над простотой глумящуюся ложь, Ничтожество в роскошном одеянье, И совершенству ложный приговор, И девственность, поруганную грубо, И неуместной почести позор, И мощь в плену у немощи беззубой, И прямоту, что глупостью слывет, И глупость в маске мудреца, пророка, И вдохновения зажатый рот, И праведность на службе у порока. Все мерзостно, что вижу я вокруг. . . Но как тебя покинуть, милый друг!

Sonnet 66 Перевод Б. Л. Пастернака Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And guilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly doctor-like controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Измучась всем, я умереть хочу. Тоска смотреть, как мается бедняк, И как шутя живется богачу, И доверять, и попадать впросак, И наблюдать, как наглость лезет в свет, И честь девичья катится ко дну, И знать, что ходу совершенствам нет, И видеть мощь у немощи в плену, И вспоминать, что мысли замкнут рот, И разум сносит глупости хулу, И прямодушье простотой слывет, И доброта прислуживает злу. Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. Измучась всем, не стал бы жить и дня, Да другу трудно будет без меня.

Sonnet 66 Перевод В. К. Житомирского Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And guilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly doctor-like controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Противно всё, - как отдых смерть зову: Что в нищете рождается достойный, И весело ничтожества живут, И веру чистую поганят преспокойно, И невпопад блеск чести золотой, И души девичью ломают силой, И совершенство мажут клеветой, И сила связана рукою хилой, И власть искусству завязала рот, И нагло разумом безумье правит, И простоватыми простых зовет, И зло добром распоряжаться вправе, - Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. Противно всё, за гробом манит даль, Любимую оставить только жаль.

The earth like the waters bubbles hath And these were of them.

Sonnet 74 But be contented: when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. When thou reviewest this, thou dost review The very part was consecrate to thee: The earth can have but earth, which is his due; My spirit is thine, the better part of me: So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, The prey of worms, my body being dead, The coward conquest of a wretch's knife, Too base of thee to be remembered. The worth of that is that which it contains, And that is this, and this with thee remains.

Sonnet 74 Перевод Б. Л. Пастернака But be contented: when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. When thou reviewest this, thou dost review The very part was consecrate to thee: The earth can have but earth, which is his due; My spirit is thine, the better part of me: So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, The prey of worms, my body being dead, The coward conquest of a wretch's knife, Too base of thee to be remembered. The worth of that is that which it contains, And that is this, and this with thee remains. Но успокойся. В дни, когда в острог Навек я смертью буду взят под стражу, Одна живая память этих строк Еще переживет мою пропажу. И ты увидишь, их перечитав, Что было лучшею моей частицей. Вернется в землю мой земной состав, Мой дух к тебе, как прежде, обратится. И ты поймешь, что только прах исчез, Не стоящий нисколько сожаленья, То, что отнять бы мог головорез, добыча ограбленья, жертва тленья. А ценно было только то одно, Что и теперь тебе посвящено.

Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still, And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before. There's no such thing: Maсbeth Act II, Scene 1

Sonnet 32 If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall сover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men. O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this love had brought, To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love. '

Sonnet 32 Перевод В. К. Житомирского If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall сover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men. O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: “Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this love had brought, To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love. ” И если ты тот день переживешь, Когда скелет мой смерть примнет лопатой, И строчки бледные опять возьмешь Любовника, угасшего когда-то; Сравни их с современными стихами И их не ради рифмы сохрани, Но ради той любви, что дышит в них, Хотя они слабее новых сами. Подумай с лаской о стихах моих: «Когда бы муза друга дольше зрела, Его любовь создала бы стихи, Достойные стать рядом с теми смело. Он умер. В новых я ценю искусство, Его стихи я перечту за чувство. »

To-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. Maсbeth, Act V, Scene 5

Sonnet 17 Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life and shows not half your arts. 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 touch'd earthly faces. ' So should my papers yellow'd with their age Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage And stretched metre of an antique song: But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

Sonnet 17 Перевод Н. Гумилева Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life and shows not half your arts. 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 touch'd earthly faces. ' So should my papers yellow'd with their age Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage And stretched metre of an antique song: But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. Моим поэмам кто б поверить мог, Коль Ваших качеств дал я в них картину? Они — гроб Вашей жизни, знает Бог, Их могут передать лишь вполовину. И опиши я Ваших взоров свет И перечисли все, что в Вас прелестно, Грядущий век решил бы: «Лжет поэт, То лик не человека, а небесный» . Он осмеял бы ветхие листы Как старцев, что болтливей, чем умнее. Он эту правду счел бы за мечты Иль старой песни вольные затеи. Но будь у Вас ребенок в веке том, Вы жили б дважды — и в стихах, и в нем.

Sonnet 17 Перевод В. К. Житомирского Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life and shows not half your arts. 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 touch'd earthly faces. ' So should my papers yellow'd with their age Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage And stretched metre of an antique song: But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. Кто в будущем моим стихам поверит? Я прелестью твоей наполнил их, Но передал её не в полной мере, Ты жизнь сама – и как могила стих. И если б смог я описать стихами И красоту твою и блеск очей, Потомки скажут: ложь, игра словами, Небесных черт нет у земных людей. Отбросят пожелтевшие листочки Как лживый вздор болтливых стариков И скажут: что ж, рифмованные строчки, Поэта вольности, фигуры старых строф. Но если будет дочь твоя жива, Ты будешь жить: в ней и в моих словах.

Sonnet 27 Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head, To work my mind, when body's work's expired: For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee and for myself no quiet find.

Sonnet 52 So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since, seldom coming, in the long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet. So is the time that keeps you as my chest, Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, To make some special instant special blest, By new unfolding his imprison'd pride. Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope, Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.

Sonnet 52 Перевод В. К. Житомирского So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since, seldom coming, in the long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet. So is the time that keeps you as my chest, Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, To make some special instant special blest, By new unfolding his imprison'd pride. Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope, Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope. Теперь я как богач, который властно Замкнув на ключ сокровище своё, Его не хочет видеть ежечасно, Чтоб не тупилось счастья остриё. Средь вереницы долгих дней в году Торжественны и редки дни веселья, Как редко между мелкими идут Крупнейшие каменья ожерелья. И в недрах времени хранишься ты, Как в сундуке заботливо хранят, Чтоб развернуть блеск пленной красоты В особый день, - особенный наряд. Благословен день торжества: ты здесь! Но нет тебя, - надежда всё же есть.

Sonnet 73 That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Sonnet 73 Перевод Б. Л. Пастернака That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. То время года видишь ты во мне, Когда из листьев редко где какой, Дрожа, желтеет в веток голизне, А птичий свист везде сменил покой. Во мне ты видишь бледный край небес, Где от заката памятка одна, И, постепенно взявши перевес, Их опечатывает темнота. Во мне ты видишь то сгоранье пня, Когда зола, что пламенем была, Становится могилою огня, А то, что грело, изошло дотла. И, это видя, помни: нет цены Свиданьям, дни которых сочтены.

Sonnet 73 Перевод В. К. Житомирского That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. Ты узнаешь во мне то время года, Когда на голых ветках, там и тут, Желтеет лист и треплет непогода, Как ветхий клирос, певчих птиц приют. Во мне ты видишь сумерки: темнеет, Закат на западе почти погас, И ночь мало по малу всё плотнее Как смерть во мрак укутывает нас. Во мне, ты видишь, тлеть теперь лишь может Огонь на пепле юности своей, Он угасает, как на смертном ложе, Среди питавших жар его углей. Ты видишь всё и любишь тем сильней, Что для любви осталось мало дней.