Читать книгу Неизвестный Шекспир - Станислав Викторович Хромов - Страница 19

The trickling tears that fall along my cheeks,

The secret sighs that show my inward grief,

The present pains perforce that love ay seeks,

Bid me renew my cares without relief

In woeful song, in dole display,

My pensive heart for to bewray.

Bewray thy grief, thou woeful heart, with speed,

Resign thy voice to her that caused thy woe;

With irksome cries bewail thy late-done deed,

For she thou lovest is sure thy mortal foe,

And help for thee there is none sure,

But still in pain thou must endure.

The stricken Deer hath help to heal his wound,

The haggard hawk with toil is made full tame,

The strongest tower the Cannon lays on ground,

The wisest wit that ever had the fame

Was thrall to Love by Cupid’s sleights;

Then weigh my case with equal weights.

She is my joy, she is my care and woe,

She is my pain, she is my ease therefor,

She is my death, she is my life also,

She is my salve, she is my wounded sore;

In fine, she hath the hand and knife

That may both save and end my life.

And shall I live on earth to be her thrall?

And shall I sue and serve her all in vain?

And shall I kiss the steps that she lets fall?

And shall I pray the gods to keep the pain

From her, that is so cruel still?

No, no, on her work all your will.

And let her feel the power of all your might,

And let her have her most desire with speed,

And let her pine away both day and night,

And let her moan, and none lament her need,

And let all those that shall her see

Despise her state, and pity me.