Читать книгу Неизвестный Шекспир - Станислав Викторович Хромов - Страница 15

My meaning is to work what wonders love hath wrought,

Wherewith I muse why men of wit have love so dearly bought;

For love is worse than hate, and eke more harm hath done:

Record I take of those that rede of Paris, Priam’s son.

It seemed the God of sleep had mazed so much his wits

When he refused wit for love, which cometh but by fits;

But why accuse I him, whom earth hath covered long?

There be of his posterity alive, I do him wrong.

Whom I might well condemn to be a cruel judge

Unto myself, who hath the crime in others that I grudge.