that keeps mine eye awake: Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake: For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near. Tvoya li volya mne meshaet veki Smezhit', kogda vo t'me nochnoj vidnej Tvoj obraz, ty podob'e divnoj vehi Sredi tvoih nasmeshlivyh tenej? Ne tvoj li duh presleduet menya, Revnivyj soglyadataj v tishine, Menya v postydnoj prazdnosti vinya, Moj tajnyj styd napominaya mne? Pust' lyubish' ty, no lyubish' ty ne tak, CHtob, ten'yu mnimoj druga dorozha, So mnoj vperyat'sya v nepriglyadnyj mrak, Kak delayut nochnye storozha. YA grezhu vdaleke, voobrazi! No esli ty ne spish', ne ya vblizi... Sonnet LXII Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye And all my soul, and all my every part; And for this sin there is no remedy, It is so grounded inward in my heart. Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, No shape so true, no truth of such account; And for myself mine own worth do define, As I all other in all worths surmount. But when my glass shows me myself indeed Beated and chopp'd with tanned antiquity, Mine own self-love quite contrary I read; Self so self-loving were iniquity. Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days. Moj greh - lyubov' ko mne zhe samomu. Glaza i serdce zavorozheny. Kakoe ya lekarstvo ni primu, Lyubov'yu chleny vse zarazheny. Mne kazhetsya, licom ya krashe vseh, I vneshnij vid moj do togo pravdiv, CHto dolzhen ya vsegda imet' uspeh, Sopernikov nichtozhnyh pobediv. No v zerkale ya vizhu, kak ya star, I zrimye sledy dushevnyh ran Perechat obayan'yu lozhnyh char, CHtoby razoblachit' samoobman. Tak ya prisvoil prelest' yunyh let, V tebe, moj drug, uvidev moj portret. Sonnet LXIII Against my love shall be as I am now, With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn; When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night; And all those beauties whereof now he's king Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight, Stealing away the treasure of his spring; For such a time do I now fortify Against confounding age's cruel knife, That he shall never cut from memory My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life: His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green. Kogda udary vremya naneset, Kak mne kogda-to, drugu moemu, Postigshemu, chto vremya krov' soset, I kanet utro yunoe vo t'mu, Kuda vlechet obryvistaya noch', I prelesti, kotoryh on korol', Ischeznut, kak vesna uhodit proch', Ostaviv po sebe tupuyu bol', Togda potom naprasno budet vek Grozit' emu; ya veku dam otpor, CHtoby neumolimyj ne otsek Ot pamyati to, chto charuet vzor. Pust' krasotu grozit razrushit' rok, Drug vechno zelen mezhdu chernyh strok. Sonnet LXIV When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometime lofty towers I see down-raz'd, And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay; Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose. Uzrev, kak vremya groznoyu rukoj Gromit grobnicu veka, chtoby vpred' Obrushivalsya kamennyj pokoj, Pod shchebnem horonya rabynyu-med'; Uzrev, kak nastupaet okean, K zemle svoej vozlyublennoj revniv, I ne shchadit pri etom celyh stran, Ubytok s pribyl'yu soediniv, Uzrev paden'e carstv i natisk bed, Kotoryh nikomu ne izbezhat', YA dumayu, chto vremya mne vo vred I mne lyubvi moej ne uderzhat'. A eta mysl', kak smert', vsegda v slezah: Lyubya, boyus' ya, chto lyublyu ya prah. Sonnet LXV Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O! how shall summer's honey breath hold out, Against the wrackful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong but Time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack, Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O! none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright. Med', mramor, more i zemnaya tverd' Ischeznut, kak na nebe oblaka. Vseh pobezhdaet yarostnaya smert'. Neuzhto krasota sil'nej cvetka? Kak ustoit medovyj aromat, Kogda nachnet osennij veyat' mrak? Tak vremya ne shchadit zheleznyh vrat, I ruhnut skaly ot ego atak. U vremeni takaya lovkost' ruk, CHto usledit' za nim ne mozhet glaz; I mne podumat' grustno, chto v sunduk Zapret ono prekrasnejshij almaz. No chudom posle mnimyh pohoron V chernilah chernyh zablistaet on. Sonnet LXVI Tired with all these, for restful death I cry. As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, And strength by limping sway disabled And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. Krichu ya smerti: Gde ty? YA ustal Smotret', kak b'etsya doblest' v nishchete, Kak nizost' udostoena pohval, Kak veru obrekayut klevete, Kak znatnost' podlost'yu posramlena, Kak devstvennost'yu vlastvuet razvrat, Kak dobrodetel' gnusno rastlena, Kak silu dushit hilyj supostat, Kak rot iskusstvu zatykaet vlast', Kak bred uchenyj razumu vredit, Kak pravdu krivda popiraet vslast', Kak zloba dobrotoj rukovodit. Krichu ya, no otveta ne dano, I brosit' zdes' lyubov' moyu greshno. Sonnet LXVII Ah! wherefore with infection should he live, And with his presence grace impiety, That sin by him advantage should achieve, And lace itself with his society? Why should false painting imitate his cheek, And steal dead seeming of his living hue? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek Roses of shadow, since his rose is true? Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is, Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins? For she hath no exchequer now but his, And proud of many, lives upon his gains. O! him she stores, to show what wealth she had In days long since, before these last so bad. Zatem li tak prel'stitel'no rastlen On, chtoby ukrashat' soboj razvrat, CHtoby s grehom v soyuze brat' nas v plen, Hot' sam pri etom kazhdyj vinovat? Zachem iskusstvo lozhnoe kradet Ego zhivoj i svezhij cvet lica? Ten' rozy neuzheli prevzojdet ZHivuyu rozu, raduya serdca? Ne dlya togo li klyanchit krov' iz zhil Rastratchica-Priroda u nego, CHtob kaznacheem vpred' on ej sluzhil I vospolnyal soboyu motovstvo. Blistala, deskat', v proshlom i ona, Hotya teper' plohie vremena. Sonnet LXVIII Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty lived and died as flowers do now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born, Or durst inhabit on a living brow; Before the golden tresses of the dead, The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, To live a second life on second head; Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay: In him those holy antique hours are seen, Without all ornament, itself and true, Making no summer of another's green, Robbing no old to dress his beauty new; And him as for a map doth Nature store, To show false Art what beauty was of yore. Ego cherty - chertezh minuvshih dnej, Kogda bespechno krasota cvela I ne glumilis' hishchniki nad nej, Srezaya lokon s mertvogo chela, CHtoby chelo drugoe ukrashat' Kudryami zolotymi mertveca I vozhdelen'e prezhnee vnushat', Prel'shchaya legkovernye serdca. V nem vidyatsya bylye vremena, Kogda ne trebovalas' krasote Iz groba izvlechennaya vesna, Kak v nashi dni, pri nashej nishchete. Svoi hranit Priroda chertezhi, Otstaivaya pravdu protiv lzhi. Sonnet LXIX Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd; But those same tongues, that give thee so thine own, In other accents do this praise confound By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that in guess they measure by thy deeds; Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind, To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, The soil is this, that thou dost common grow. Kto skazhet, chto soboyu ty horosh, Tot krasote lish' dolzhnoe vozdast. Nikto ne vozrazit, chto eto lozh'. YAzyk dushe poddakivat' gorazd. Dlya vneshnosti lish' vneshnyaya hvala. Nemeyut, zapinayas', yazyki, Do koih sut' iz nedr tvoih doshla Prekrasnoj vidimosti vopreki. Pytlivye tvoj oshchutili duh, Gde dobroe taitsya v kushchah smut I plevely v predchuvstvii razruh, Pahuchie, bezuderzhno cvetut. CHem s vidu krasota tvoya milej, Tem zapah podloj pochvy tyazhelej. Sonnet LXX That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, For slander's mark was ever yet the fair; The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. So thou be good, slander doth but approve Thy worth the greater being wooed of time; For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days Either not assailed, or victor being charged; Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy, evermore enlarged, If some suspect of ill masked not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe. Ty nizkoj cherni, vprochem, ne cheta, Za chto tebya chernyat so vseh storon; Vsegda na podozren'e krasota, CHistejshaya lazur' ne bez voron. Prekrasnomu priverzhen klevetnik. Somnitel'ny dostoinstva cvetka, Poka v nego zlovrednyj ne pronik CHerv', chtoby pirovat' ispodtishka. Soblazn vesny tebya ne minoval, No zapadnya ee tebe pretit. Pri etom izobilie pohval Ot zavisti tebya ne zashchitit. Kogda b ne podozren'ya bez prichin, Vo vseh serdcah caril by ty odin. Sonnet LXXI No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. O! if, I say, you look upon this verse, When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse; But let your love even with my life decay; Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone. Pechal' zablagovremenno ujmi, Kogda zaverit kolokol'nyj zvon, CHto, merzkimi otvergnutyj lyud'mi, K chervyam bezhal ya posle pohoron. Ne vspominaj, chitaya etot stih, Ruki moej; pora tebe ponyat': YA tak tebya lyublyu, chto nikakih Skorbej tebe ne stal by prichinyat'. Sebya ty nahodi v moih strokah, No pust' menya tvoj golos ne zovet; Kogda smeshayut s glinoyu moj prah, Pust' smert' moya lyubov' tvoyu prervet. Inache mir vniman'e obratit, CHto pomnish' ty menya, a eto - styd. Sonnet LXXII O! Lest the world should task you to recite What merit lived in me, that you should love After my death, - dear love, forget me quite, For you in me can nothing worthy prove. Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, To do more for me than mine own desert, And hang more praise upon deceased I Than niggard truth would willingly impart: O! lest your true love may seem false in this That you for love speak well of me untrue, My name be buried where my body is, And live no more to shame nor me nor you. For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth. Zabud' menya, kak tol'ko ya umru; Ne nado zhizn' moyu priukrashat', Kogda, zateyav nizkuyu igru, Tebya nachnut o mertvom voproshat'. I esli skazhesh' ty, chto ya horosh, Ty protiv skryagi-pravdy pogreshish'; Skazav blagonamerennuyu lozh', K sebe ty nedoverie vnushish'. Kak budto vernaya lyubov' togda Dlya nas oboih - tol'ko zapadnya; Ni dlya tebya, ni dlya sebya styda YA ne hochu; pust' ne bylo menya. Umershego lyubimym ne zovi! Dostojno li nichtozhestvo lyubvi? Sonnet LXXIII That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed, whereon it must expire, Consum'd with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well, which thou must leave ere long. Ty vidish': mrachnaya vo mne pora, Kogda v polunagih vetvyah dubrav Neistovye mechutsya vetra, Pernatyh pevchih s horov razognav. Vo mne zakat, kak budto svet so mnoj, No v sumerkah luchom edva skvozit, I, pritvorivshis' temnotoj nochnoj, Svoej pechat'yu smert' vsemu grozit. Ty vidish': moj ogon' pochti pogas, I ya zastyt' gotov, ispepelen, Kak budto yarkij zhar v poslednij chas Svoeyu byvshej pishchej istreblen. No soglasis': tebe dorozhe tot, S kem navsegda prostish'sya ty vot-vot. Sonnet LXXIV Vut be contented when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. When thou reviewest this, thou dost review The very part was consecrate to thee: The earth can have but earth, which is his due; My spirit is thine, the better part of me: So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, The prey of worms, my body being dead; The coward conquest of a wretch's knife, Too base of thee to be remembered. The worth of that is that which it contains, And that is this, and this with thee remains. Kogda navek ya budu zatochen Uzhe bez prava vyjti pod zalog I ty pri etom budesh' ogorchen, Ty zhizn' moyu najdesh' sred' etih strok, Ih prosmotrev, usmotrish' chast' moyu, Vse to, k chemu ty ne byl v zhizni gluh; Zemnoj moj prah ya prahu otdayu, Tebe - chast' luchshuyu moyu, moj duh. Osadkom zhizni ya ne dorozhu, I telu moemu ne ucelet'. Obrecheno, chervivoe, nozhu, O merzosti moej zachem zhalet'? Ty pomni tol'ko: luchshee vo mne Po-prezhnemu s toboj naedine. Sonnet LXXV So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground; And for the peace of you I hold such strife As "twixt a miser and his wealth is found. Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure; Now counting best to be with you alone, Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure: Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by and by clean starved for a look; Possessing or pursuing no delight Save what is had, or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, Or gluttoning on all, or all away. Lish' po tebe ya golodom tomim; Tak zhazhdet borozda dozhdya vesnoj; I sushchestvom zahvachen ya tvoim, Kak zhadnyj bogatej svoej kaznoj. To pryachu ya ot vorovatyh glaz Tvoe charuyushchee sovershenstvo; To vystavlyayu derzko napokaz Moe nevynosimoe blazhenstvo. Presyshchen ya, no golod ne zatih, I vot uzhe ya vnov' lovlyu tvoj vzglyad; Znat' ne hochu ya radostej drugih, Krome tebya, ne vedayu uslad. Terpet' mne v etoj zhizni suzhdeno Izlishestvo s lishen'em zaodno. Sonnet LXXVI Why is my verse so barren of new pride, So far from variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-found methods, and to compounds strange? Why write I still all one, ever the same, And keep invention in a noted weed, That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? O! know sweet love I always write of you, And you and love are still my argument; So all my best is dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent: For as the sun is daily new and old, So is my love still telling what is told. Neuzhto stih moj stol' smirenno toshch, CHto shlifovat' ego - naprasnyj trud, I nesposoben ya prisvoit' moshch' Izyskannyh novatorskih prichud? No tak ono i est' po sushchestvu. YA noviznoyu mnimoj porazhen. I kazhdym slovom ya tebya zovu, Ne znaya slov oprich' tvoih imen. Lyubov', ty ne byvaesh' ne prava. CHto vremya! Mne smeshon ego zador. V naryade novom starye slova. YA trachu to, chto tratil do sih por. I solnce v nebe, kak moe pero, Odnovremenno novo i staro. Sonnet LXXVII Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know Time's thievish progress to eternity. Look what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book. Uvidish' v zerkale: tvoj bleknet lik. CHasy pokazyvayut: zhizn' bezhit. No cely vse eshche stranicy knig I mysl', kotoroj razum dorozhit, Tvoi morshchiny v zerkale vidnej, Mogil'nye soyuznicy toski, I ottogo chasy idut vernej, CHto k vechnosti kradutsya vorovski. CHto ne uderzhish' v pamyati, ty vver' Listam bumagi, ch'ya nadezhna glad', I mozg togda ne poneset poter', Svoih detej on budet luchshe znat'. Oni tebe byloe vozvratyat, CHem budushchij tvoj trud obogatyat. Sonnet LXXVIII So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse, And found such fair assistance in my verse As every alien pen hath got my use And under thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned's wing And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine, and born of thee: In others' works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; But thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning my rude ignorance. Kogo, kak ne tebya, mne muzoj zvat'? Po-prezhnemu toboj zhivet moj stih. Mezh tem tebya derznuvshih vospevat' Po moemu primeru - skol'ko ih? Tvoi glaza nemogo uchat pet', Nevezhestvo iskusstvom okryliv, CHtob krepli kryl'ya v novyh per'yah vpred', Velikolep'e graciej prodliv. No mozhesh' ty gordit'sya tol'ko mnoj, Lish' dlya menya pervoistochnik - ty. Prav' smelo stil' tomu, kto ne rodnoj, Podbav' emu zaemnoj krasoty. Ty vse moe iskusstvo, pri moem Nevezhestve zenit i okoem. Sonnet LXXIX Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; But now my gracious numbers are decayed, And my sick Muse doth give an other place. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen; Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, And found it in thy cheek: he can afford No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay. Odin ya vospeval tebya sperva, No moj zloschastnyj stih teper' zachah, Moya bol'naya muza chut' zhiva, I prevzoshel menya drugoj v hvalah, Puskaj dostojna luchshego pera Moya lyubov', chej mne otraden gnet, Hvala chuzhaya potomu shchedra, CHto u tebya dostoinstvo kradet. Lyuboj hvalitel' budet znamenit, Krasnorechiv i bezuprechno prav, Vosslaviv krasotu tvoih lanit I dobrodeteli tvoi nazvav. Tebe ya ne napomnit' ne mogu, CHto tvoj hvalitel' u tebya v dolgu. Sonnet LXXX O! How I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might, To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame. But since your worth, wide as the ocean is, The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My saucy bark, inferior far to his, On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride; Or, being wrack'd, I am a worthless boat, He of tall building, and of goodly pride: Then if he thrive and I be cast away, The worst was this, my love was my decay. Nachav pisat', ya duhom past' gotov; Tebya vospel vladyka iz vladyk, Neprevzojden v mogushchestve stihov, Tak chto nemeet u menya yazyk. No v okeane sovershenstv tvoih Derzaem plavat' oba: on i ya, Bol'shoj korabl' sred' burnyh voln morskih I malen'kaya, zhalkaya lad'ya. Moya lad'ya potonet na meli, Poverh glubin plyvet on v dal'nij port; Moej mol'be o pomoshchi vnemli, Kak tot korabl' ni slaven i ni gord; On budet plyt', a ya pojdu ko dnu, V chem sleduet vinit' lyubov' odnu. Sonnet LXXXI Or I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten, From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read; And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead; You still shall live, such virtue hath my pen, Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. Byt' mozhet, ya perezhivu tebya I druga pomyanu eshche stihami, No vryad li vspomnyat i menya, skorbya, Kogda sgniyu s moimi ya grehami. Vovek lyud'mi ne budesh' ty zabyt, Moe zhe sginet imya, kak moj prah; V zemle so vsemi budu ya zaryt, Netlenen budesh' ty v lyudskih glazah. Moj nezhnyj stih tebya zapechatlel Dlya glaz, ne sushchestvuyushchih poka; I navsegda ostanesh'sya ty cel, Kak dyshashchaya lish' toboj stroka. Pero moe dlya budushchih epoh V usta tebya vselyaet, vechnyj vzdoh. Sonnet LXXXII I grant thou wert not married to my Muse And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook The dedicated words which writers use Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Finding thy worth a limit past my praise; And therefore art enforced to seek anew Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. And do so, love; yet when they have devis'd, What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathiz'd In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend; And their gross painting might be better usd Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abusd. Itak, moej ty muze ne suprug, I posvyashchen'ya mozhesh' ty chitat', V kotoryh izoshchryaetsya vokrug Pisatelej nazojlivaya rat'. Razumen ty i tak horosh soboj, CHto shchegol'nut' hvaloyu trudno mne, I slavyat vse tebya napereboj, Prevoshodya drug druga v novizne. Puskaya tebya starayutsya oni Natuzhnoyu ritorikoj privlech', No tem dorozhe, milyj moj, ceni Beshitrostnuyu druzheskuyu rech'. Rumyana dlya drugih, beskrovnyh shchek, Zachem oni tomu, kto ne poblek? Sonnet LXXXIII I never saw that you did painting need, And therefore to your fair no painting set; I found, or thought I found, you did exceed The barren tender of a poet's debt: And therefore have I slept in your report, That you yourself, being extant, well might show How far a modern quill doth come too short, Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. This silence for my sin you did impute, Which shall be most my glory being dumb; For I impair not beauty being mute, When others would give life, and bring a tomb. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Than both your poets can in praise devise. YA dumal, chto horosh ty bez prikras, Izyskam stihotvorcev ne cheta, Privyk ya verit', chto bez gromkih fraz Tvoya vostorzhestvuet krasota. Skazal ty, chto ya splyu, kogda pora Tebe vo slavu otchekanit' stih, No ne dlya sovremennogo pera Rost sovershenstv nevidannyh tvoih. Po krajnej mere, ya ne zapyatnal Tebya slovami, koim grosh cena, I v nemote moej navek uznal, CHto krasota tvoya i tak vidna. A zhizn' v odnom iz dvuh tvoih ochej Tvoih zatmit oboih rifmachej. Sonnet LXXXIV Who is it that says most, which can say more, Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you, In whose confine immured is the store Which should example where your equal grew? Lean penury within that pen doth dwell That to his subject lends not some small glory; But he that writes of you, if he can tell That you are you, so dignifies his story. Let him but copy what in you is writ, Not making worse what nature made so clear, And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, Making his style admired everywhere. You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. Tebya v tebe proslavit' - vot hvala. Obsledovav razlichnye kraya, Nikto by ne nashel nigde ugla, Gde kopiya tailas' by tvoya, I operet'sya ne na chto peru, Tebya vospet' namerennomu srochno. V pustuyu ne vvyazat'sya by igru! Tebya dostojno tol'ko to, chto tochno. Tvoim chertam nanosit yavnyj vred Tot, kto v hvalah bezuderzhno rechist; Proslavit portretista tvoj portret, V kotorom stil' samoj prirody chist. Bez preuvelichenij ty horosh. Malejshaya tebya isportit lozh'. Sonnet LXXXV My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still, While comments of your praise richly compiled, Reserve thy character with golden quill, And precious phrase by all the Muses filed. I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words, And like unlettered clerk still cry "Amen" To every hymn that able spirit affords, In polished form of well-refined pen. Hearing you praised, I say'"'tis so, 'tis true,' And to the most of praise add something more; But that is in my thought, whose love to you, Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before. Then others, for the breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. Moya lishilas' muza yazyka Sredi drugih velikolepnyh muz, CH'ya pesn' hvalebnaya tebe sladka, A per'yami zlatymi dvizhet vkus. YA v myslyah odaren, v slovah bezdar'; Poddakivayu gimnam ya chuzhim, Ne znaya bukv, kak staryj ponomar', "Amin'", - tverzhu, toboyu oderzhim, YA priznayu, dostoin ty pohval, Lish' vtoryu ya hvalitelyam tvoim; Dopustim, ya v slovesnosti otstal, No kto eshche, kak mnoyu ty, lyubim. Lyubi, slova krasivye cenya, S moej nemoj lyubov'yu i menya. Sonnet LXXXVI Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize of all too precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He, nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, As victors of my silence cannot boast; I was not sick of any fear from thence: But when your countenance filled up his line, Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine. Neuzhto smolk ya, potomu chto tot, CHej parus nad voln