Читать книгу Неизвестный Шекспир - Станислав Викторович Хромов - Страница 27

Whereas the heart at tennis plays, and men to gaming fall,

Love is the court, hope is the house, and favour serves the ball.

The ball itself is true desert; the line, which measure shows,

Is reason, whereon judgment looks how players win or lose.

The jetty is deceitful guile, the stopper, jealousy,

Which hath Sir Argus’ hundred eyes wherewith to watch and pry.

The fault, wherewith fifteen is lost, is want of wit and sense,

And he that brings the racket in is double diligence.

And lo, the racket is freewill, which makes the ball rebound;

And noble beauty is the chase, of every game the ground.

But rashness strikes the ball awry, and where is oversight?

«A bandy ho,» the people cry, and so the ball takes flight.

Now in the end, good-liking proves content the game and gain.

Thus in a tennis knit I love, a pleasure mixed with pain.