Уильям Шекспир , Хилари Мантел , Александр Константинович Жолковский , Кеннет Брана , Хаим Плуцик - Год Шекспира

more lovely than a man,

More white and red than doves or roses are:

        Nature that made thee with herself at strife,

        Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

ʼVouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,

And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow.

If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed

A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:

        Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,

        And being set, I’ll smother thee with kisses,

ʼAnd yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,

But rather famish them amid their plenty,

Making them red, and pale, with fresh variety:

Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty.

        A summer’s day will seem an hour but short,

        Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.’

With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,

The precedent of pith and livelihood,

And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,

Earth’s sovereign salve, to do a goddess good.

        Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force

        Courageously to pluck him from his horse.

Over one arm the lusty courser’s rein,

Under her other was the tender boy,

Who blushed and pouted in a dull disdain,

With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;

        She red, and hot, as coals of glowing fire,

        He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

The studded bridle on a ragged bough,

Nimbly she fastens (O how quick is love!);

The steed is stallèd up, and even now,

To tie the rider she begins to prove.

        Backward she pushed him, as she would be thrust,

        And governed him in strength though not in lust.

So soon was she along, as he was down,

Each leaning on their elbows and their hips.

Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,

And ’gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips,

        And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken:

        ʼIf thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.’

He burns with bashful shame, she with her tears

Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;

Then with her windy sighs, and golden hairs,

To fan, and blow them dry again she seeks.

        He saith she is immodest, blames her miss;

        What follows more, she murders with a kiss.

Even as an empty eagle sharp by fast,

Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone,

Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,

Till either gorge be stuffed, or prey be gone:

        Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,

        And where she ends, she doth anew begin.

Forced to content, but never to obey,

Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face;

She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey,

And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace,

        Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,

        So they were dewd with such distilling showers.

Look how a bird lies tangled in a net,

So fasten’d in her arms Adonis lies.

Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret,

Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:

        Rain, added to a river that is rank,

        Perforce will force it overflow the bank.

Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,

For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale.

Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets,

ʼTwixt crimson shame, and anger ashy-pale,

        Being red she loves him best, and being white,

        Her best is bettered with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;

And by her fair immortal hand she swears,

From his soft bosom never to remove,

Till he take truce with her contending tears,

        Which long have rained, making her cheeks all wet,

        And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,

Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave,

Who being looked on, ducks as quickly in:

So offers he to give what she did crave,

        But when her lips were ready for his pay,

        He winks, and turns his lips another way.

Never did passenger in summer’s heat

More thirst for drink, than she for this good turn.

Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;

She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn:

        ʼO! pity’, gan she cry, ʼflint-hearted boy,

        ʼTis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?

ʼI have been wooed as I entreat thee now,

Even by the stern and direful god of war,

Whose sinewy neck in battle ne’er did bow,

Who conquers where he comes in every jar,

        Yet hath he been my captive, and my slave,

        And begged for that which thou unasked shalt have.

ʼOver my altars hath he hung his lance,

His battered shield, his uncontrollèd crest,

And for my sake hath learned to sport, and dance,

To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest,

        Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red,

        Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.

ʼThus he that over-ruled, I over-swayed,

Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain.

Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obeyed;

Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.

        O be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,

        For mastering her that foiled the God of fight.

ʼTouch but my lips with those fair lips of thine

(Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red),

The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.

What seest thou in the ground? Hold up thy head,

        Look in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies:

        Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?

ʼArt thou ashamed to kiss? Then wink again,

And I will wink, so shall the day seem night.

Love keeps his revels where there are but twain;

Be bold to play; our sport is not in sight:

        These blue-veined violets whereon we lean

        Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

ʼThe tender spring upon thy tempting lip

Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted.

Make use of time, let not advantage slip:

Beauty within itself should not be wasted,

        Fair flowers that are not gathered in their prime

        Rot, and consume themselves in little time.

ʼWere I hard-favoured, foul, or wrinkled old,

Ill-nurtured, crookèd, churlish, harsh in --">