Читать книгу Don Quixote - Мигель де Сервантес Сааведра, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra - Страница 3

If to be welcomed by the good,

   O Book! thou make thy steady aim,

 No empty chatterer will dare

   To question or dispute thy claim.

 But if perchance thou hast a mind

   To win of idiots approbation,

 Lost labour will be thy reward,

   Though they'll pretend appreciation.

They say a goodly shade he finds

   Who shelters 'neath a goodly tree;

 And such a one thy kindly star

   In Bejar bath provided thee:

 A royal tree whose spreading boughs

   A show of princely fruit display;

 A tree that bears a noble Duke,

   The Alexander of his day.

Of a Manchegan gentleman

   Thy purpose is to tell the story,

 Relating how he lost his wits

   O'er idle tales of love and glory,

 Of "ladies, arms, and cavaliers:"

   A new Orlando Furioso-

 Innamorato, rather – who

   Won Dulcinea del Toboso.

Put no vain emblems on thy shield;

   All figures – that is bragging play.

 A modest dedication make,

   And give no scoffer room to say,

 "What! Alvaro de Luna here?

   Or is it Hannibal again?

 Or does King Francis at Madrid

   Once more of destiny complain?"

Since Heaven it hath not pleased on thee

   Deep erudition to bestow,

 Or black Latino's gift of tongues,

   No Latin let thy pages show.

 Ape not philosophy or wit,

   Lest one who cannot comprehend,

 Make a wry face at thee and ask,

   "Why offer flowers to me, my friend?"

Be not a meddler; no affair

   Of thine the life thy neighbours lead:

 Be prudent; oft the random jest

   Recoils upon the jester's head.

 Thy constant labour let it be

   To earn thyself an honest name,

 For fooleries preserved in print

   Are perpetuity of shame.

A further counsel bear in mind:

   If that thy roof be made of glass,

 It shows small wit to pick up stones

   To pelt the people as they pass.

 Win the attention of the wise,

   And give the thinker food for thought;

 Whoso indites frivolities,

   Will but by simpletons be sought.

Thou that didst imitate that life of mine

   When I in lonely sadness on the great

   Rock Pena Pobre sat disconsolate,

 In self-imposed penance there to pine;

 Thou, whose sole beverage was the bitter brine

   Of thine own tears, and who withouten plate

   Of silver, copper, tin, in lowly state

 Off the bare earth and on earth's fruits didst dine;

 Live thou, of thine eternal glory sure.

   So long as on the round of the fourth sphere

   The bright Apollo shall his coursers steer,

 In thy renown thou shalt remain secure,

 Thy country's name in story shall endure,

   And thy sage author stand without a peer.

In slashing, hewing, cleaving, word and deed,

   I was the foremost knight of chivalry,

   Stout, bold, expert, as e'er the world did see;

 Thousands from the oppressor's wrong I freed;

 Great were my feats, eternal fame their meed;

   In love I proved my truth and loyalty;

   The hugest giant was a dwarf for me;

 Ever to knighthood's laws gave I good heed.

 My mastery the Fickle Goddess owned,

   And even Chance, submitting to control,

     Grasped by the forelock, yielded to my will.

 Yet – though above yon horned moon enthroned

     My fortune seems to sit – great Quixote, still

   Envy of thy achievements fills my soul.

Oh, fairest Dulcinea, could it be!

   It were a pleasant fancy to suppose so —

   Could Miraflores change to El Toboso,

 And London's town to that which shelters thee!

 Oh, could mine but acquire that livery

   Of countless charms thy mind and body show so!

   Or him, now famous grown – thou mad'st him grow so —

 Thy knight, in some dread combat could I see!

 Oh, could I be released from Amadis

   By exercise of such coy chastity

 As led thee gentle Quixote to dismiss!

     Then would my heavy sorrow turn to joy;

   None would I envy, all would envy me,

     And happiness be mine without alloy.

All hail, illustrious man! Fortune, when she

   Bound thee apprentice to the esquire trade,

   Her care and tenderness of thee displayed,

 Shaping thy course from misadventure free.

 No longer now doth proud knight-errantry

   Regard with scorn the sickle and the spade;

   Of towering arrogance less count is made

 Than of plain esquire-like simplicity.

 I envy thee thy Dapple, and thy name,

   And those alforjas thou wast wont to stuff

 With comforts that thy providence proclaim.

     Excellent Sancho! hail to thee again!

     To thee alone the Ovid of our Spain

   Does homage with the rustic kiss and cuff.