Читать книгу Yale Classics (Vol. 1) - Anacreon - Страница 111

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Tossed on a sea of troubles, Soul, my Soul,

Thyself do thou control;

And to the weapons of advancing foes

A stubborn breast oppose;

Undaunted 'mid the hostile might

Of squadrons burning for the fight.

Thine be no boasting when the victor's crown

Wins thee deserved renown;

Thine no dejected sorrow, when defeat

Would urge a base retreat:

Rejoice in joyous things—nor overmuch

Let grief thy bosom touch

Midst evil, and still bear in mind

How changeful are the ways of humankind.