Читать книгу Неизвестный Шекспир - Станислав Викторович Хромов - Страница 5

Even as the wax doth melt, or dew consume away

Before the Sun, so I behold, through careful thoughts decay,

For my best luck leads me to such sinister state

That I do waste with others’ love, that hath myself in hate,

And he that beats the bush, the wished bird not gets,

But such I see as sitteth still, and holds the fowling nets.

The Drone more honey sucks, that laboureth not at all,

Than doth the Bee, to whose most pain least pleasure doth befall;

The Gardener sows the seeds whereof the flowers do grow,

And others yet do gather them that took less pain, I know;

So I the pleasant grape have pulled from the Vine,

And yet I languish in great thirst while others drink the wine.

Thus like a woeful wight I wove my web of woe;

The more I would weed out my cares, the more they seem to grow.

The which betokeneth hope, forsaken is of me,

That with the careful culver climbs the worn and withered tree

To entertain my thoughts, and there my hap to moan,

That never am less idle, lo, than when I am alone.