Читать книгу Неизвестный Шекспир - Станислав Викторович Хромов - Страница 9

Framed in the front of forlorn hope, past all recovery,

I stayless stand t’abide the shock of shame and infamy.

My life, through lingering long, is lodged in lair of loathsome ways,

My death delayed to keep from life the harm of hapless days.

My sprites, my heart, my wit and force in deep distress are drowned;

The only loss of my good name is of these griefs the ground.

And since my mind, my wit, my head, my voice and tongue are weak

To utter, move, devise, conceive, sound forth, declare and speak

Such piercing plaints as answer might, or would, my woeful case,

Help crave I must, and crave I will, with tears upon my face

Of all that may in heaven or hell, in earth or air, be found

To wail with me this loss of mine, as of these griefs the ground.

Help gods, help saints, help sprites and powers that in the heaven do dwell,

Help ye that are to wail, ay wont, ye howling hounds of hell,

Help man, help beasts, help birds and worms that on the earth doth toil,

Help fish, help fowl that flocks and feeds upon the salt sea soil,

Help echo that in air doth flee, shrill voices to resound

To wail this loss of my good name, as of these griefs the ground.