Читать книгу Неизвестный Шекспир - Станислав Викторович Хромов - Страница 29

What cunning can express

The favour of her face,

To whom in this distress

I do appeal for grace?

A thousand Cupids fly

About her gentle eye.

From whence each throws a dart,

That kindleth soft sweet fire,

Within my sighing heart,

Possessed by desire;

No sweeter life I try,

Than in her love to die.

The Lily in the field,

That glories in his white,

For pureness now must yield

And render up his right;

Heaven pictured in her face

Doth promise joy and grace.

Fair Cynthia’s silver light,

That beats on running streams,

Compares not with her white,

Whose hairs are all sunbeams;

Her virtues so do shine,

As day unto mine eyne.

With this there is a Red

Exceeds the Damask Rose,

Which in her cheeks is spread,

Whence every favour grows;

In sky there is no star

That she surmounts not far.

When Phoebus from the bed

Of Thetis doth arise,

The morning, blushing red,

In fair carnation wise,

He shows it in her face

As Queen of every grace.

This pleasant Lily white,

This taint of roseate red,

This Cynthia’s silver light,

This sweet fair Dea spread,

These sunbeams in mine eye,

These beauties make me die.