ami gordeliv, Tebya proslavil i dostig vysot, Moj stih novorozhdennyj umertviv? Neuzhto nasmert' on menya srazil, Sej duhami nauchennyj poet? On s geniyami mne v nochi grozil, No moego stiha ne svel na net, I hot' emu soyuznyj duh nochnoj Podskazyvaet rifmy pod shumok, Ne oderzhal on verha nado mnoj I mne molchan'ya navyazat' ne mog. No ty reshil k nemu vselit'sya v stih, Ostaviv pustotu v stihah moih. Sonnet LXXXVII Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate, The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, And so my patent back again is swerving. Thy self thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing, Or me to whom thou gav'st it else mistaking; So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgement making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. Rasstanemsya, proshchaj, ty dragocennost'! Otkrylas' vdrug tebe tvoya cena, Tak chto estestvenna tvoya nadmennost'; Toboj vladel ya - vot moya vina. Tak ne pora li mne pomyslit' zdravo: Ty dar, vsegda sulivshij mne utratu. Kakoe na tebya imel ya pravo? Ne podlezhish' li ty davno vozvratu? Tebya prel'stiv somnitel'noj mechtoyu, YA priobrel tvoe raspolozhen'e; Uverivshis', chto ya tebya ne stoyu, Vernis' teper' v svoe rasporyazhen'e. Mne grezilos', chto nash soyuz vozmozhen, Vo sne korol', ya nayavu nichtozhen. Sonnet LXXXVIII When thou shall be dispos'd to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side, against myself I'll fight, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn. With mine own weakness being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story Of faults concealed, wherein I am attainted; That thou in losing me shalt win much glory: And I by this will be a gainer too; For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to myself I do, Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong. Kogda menya zhelaesh' ochernit' Ty pered legkovernoyu molvoj, Gotov ya samogo sebya vinit', Zakryv glaza na greh postydnyj tvoj. YA vsluh priznayus', v chem ya vtajne greshen, Podbaviv soblaznitel'noj otravy K navetu tvoemu, kotoryj vzveshen Na bditel'nyh vesah tvoej zhe slavy. No budu ya dovolen vse ravno; CHem vygodnej tebe, tem luchshe mne; S toboyu preuspeyu zaodno, Tvoya udacha - moj uspeh vdvojne. YA tak tebya lyublyu, chto, proigrav, Priznat' gotov, chto eto ya ne prav. Sonnet LXXXIX Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, And I will comment upon that offence: Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt, Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill, To set a form upon desired change, As I'll myself disgrace; knowing thy will, I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange; Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong, And haply of our old acquaintance tell. For thee, against my self I'll vow debate, For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate. Pokin' menya, pridumav mne vinu, Najdi vo mne iz®yan ili porok; Skazhi, chto hrom ya, i hromat' nachnu, Kak budto ot rozhden'ya kolchenog. Lyubov' moya, vstupat' ne stanem v spor. Pust' na menya obrushitsya hula! Gotov ya na sebya navlech' pozor, Mol, blizost' pozoj dlya menya byla. Ty povelish' - i otkazhus' ot vstrech, I za svoim ya budu yazykom Sledit', chtoby neproshenaya rech' Ne vydala, chto ya s toboj znakom. YA nakazhu sebya za kazhdyj shag. Kogo ty nenavidish', tot moj vrag. Sonnet XC Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after-loss: Ah! do not, when my heart hath "scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquered woe; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite, But in the onset come: so shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune's might; And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so. Ne otkazhi hot' v nenavisti mne, Kogda grozit mne otovsyudu vred; Srazi menya udarom na vojne, A ne poslednej kaplej v more bed. I pust' perezhivu ya noch' neschast'ya, Kogda rassvet zabrezzhit na vetru, Izbav' menya hotya by ot nenast'ya, CHej mozglyj morok - moros' poutru. Porvat' so mnoyu hochesh', tak porvi Nemedlenno, i kak ni tyazhelo, Udostoveryus' bez tvoej lyubvi, CHto naihudshee proizoshlo. Opomnivshis' v otchayan'e takom, Sochtu vse ostal'noe pustyakom. Sonnet XCI Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their body's force, Some in their garments though new-fangled ill; Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse; And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, Wherein it finds a joy above the rest: But these particulars are not my measure, All these I better in one general best. Thy love is better than high birth to me, Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost, Of more delight than hawks and horses be; And having thee, of all men's pride I boast: Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take All this away, and me most wretched make. Komu znatnejshij rod, komu talant, Komu daruet pochesti sud'ba. Kamzolom i plashchom gorditsya frant, Ohotniku dorozhe yastreba. U kazhdogo iz vseh svoya uteha, Net radosti emu ni v chem inom, I ne hochu drugogo ya uspeha, Kogda vse schast'e dlya menya v odnom. S tvoej lyubov'yu znatnyh ya znatnej. Bogatym daleko do bednyaka. Bez yastrebov i bez lihih konej Ohochus' ya s toboj navernyaka. Odna beda strashnej den' oto dnya: Ty ot menya ujdesh', i net menya. Sonnet XCII But do thy worst to steal thyself away, For term of life thou art assured mine; And life no longer than thy love will stay, For it depends upon that love of thine. Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, When in the least of them my life hath end. I see a better state to me belongs Than that which on thy humour doth depend: Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. O what a happy title do I find, Happy to have thy love, happy to die! But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not. No zhizn' moya ne tem li horosha, CHto bez tebya mne, bednomu, konec, I esli, suprotiv menya gresha, Sebya ty ukradesh', to ya mertvec, Kakih eshche togda boyat'sya zol, Kogda srazhen ya budu men'shim zlom? I ne strashit menya tvoj proizvol: Mne dazhe luchshe budet, chem v bylom. I nevozmozhno zhizn' moyu razbit', YA preuspeyu tak i etak vpred'. Kak schastliv ya teper' tebya lyubit', Tak bez tebya ya schastliv umeret'. I v schast'e, vprochem, viditsya pyatno. A vdrug toboj obmanut ya davno? Sonnet XCIII So shall I live, supposing thou art true, Like a deceived husband; so love's face May still seem love to me, though altered new; Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place: For there can live no hatred in thine eye, Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. In many's looks, the false heart's history Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange. But heaven in thy creation did decree That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be, Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell. How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show! Pust' ya, kak muzh obmanutyj, tverzhu, CHto ne obmanut ya toboj poka, K drugomu ty uhodish' rubezhu, Tvoj vzor so mnoj, no on izdaleka, Ustroen tak tvoj nenaglyadnyj glaz, CHto v nem tvoej izmeny ne vidat'; Lish' po tenyam s prozhilkami prokaz Tvoyu nevernost' mozhno ugadat'. Tak nebom sotvoren tvoj milyj lik, CHto dazhe ne zatmilsya do sih por, Pust' v serdce chernyj zamysel voznik, Sladchajshej nezhnosti tvoj polon vzor. Ty s vidu slovno yabloko v rayu, Tak chto ya zla v tebe ne uznayu. Sonnet XCIV They that have power to hurt, and will do none, That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow; They rightly do inherit heaven's graces, And husband nature's riches from expense; They are the lords and owners of their faces, Others, but stewards of their excellence. The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, Though to itself, it only live and die, But if that flower with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds. Kto ranit' ne hotel, hot' ranit' mog, Kto chuvstvo, sam ne chuvstvuya, vnushal, Kto volnoval, ne vedaya trevog, Ne znaya iskushenij, iskushal, Tot shchedro vzyskan milost'yu nebesnoj; Prirody obol'stitel'nyj suprug Vladeet vneshnost'yu svoej prelestnoj, I u nego drugie vmesto slug. Cvetku do voshishchennyh dela net; Kak, sladostnyj, rascvel, tak i zasoh, No, mozhet byt', zaraznyj v nem sekret, I predpochtitel'nej chertopoloh. Rasten'ya yadovitye s dushkom. Bur'yana huzhe liliya s greshkom. Sonnet XCV How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! O! in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose. That tongue that tells the story of thy days, Making lascivious comments on thy sport, Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise; Naming thy name blesses an ill report. O! what a mansion have those vices got Which for their habitation chose out thee, Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot And all things turns to fair that eyes can see! Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge. Kak roza s chervotochinoj, lyubim, Postydnomu ty sladost' pridaesh', I samyj greh pod imenem tvoim V tvoem oblich'e kazhetsya horosh. YAzyk smakuet sred' primanok vseh Vkus vyzvannyh toboj serdechnyh smut, I torzhestvuet greh sredi uteh, Kogda ego toboyu nazovut. Sebe poroki vybrali chertog Tvoih ocharovatel'nyh primet, Gde kazhdyj prikryvaetsya porok Zavesoyu, kotoroj krashe net. V izlishestvah soboj ne dorozha, Slomaesh'sya, kak lezvie nozha. Sonnet XCVI Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness; Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less: Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. As on the finger of a throned queen The basest jewel will be well esteem'd, So are those errors that in thee are seen To truths translated, and for true things deem'd. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, If like a lamb he could his looks translate! How many gazers mightst thou lead away, If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state! But do not so; I love thee in such sort, As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. Pust' govoryat, chto yunost' i razvrat V tebe sovpali, chto tvoya vina V prestupnom sochetanii uslad, Kogda v rastlen'e blagodat' vidna I naihudshij mozhet zablistat' Almaz na korolevinom perste, Kak budto krivda pravdoj mozhet stat' Blagodarya vsesil'noj krasote. Volk, agncem obernuvshijsya, pozhret Beschislennoe mnozhestvo ovec. Smotri, ne poteryat' by zhertvam schet, Ty, sovershenstv opasnyh obrazec. Osteregis'! Pust' ya s toboj ne shozh, Ty moj v lyubvi, i ya, kak ty, horosh. Sonnet XCVII How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December's bareness everywhere! And yet this time removed was summer's time; The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease: Yet this abundant issue seemed to me But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit; For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And, thou away, the very birds are mute: Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. Lyuboe vremya goda dlya menya - Zima, kogda ty ot menya vdali. Dekabr' ugryumyj, dushu ledenya, Vnushil mne: holoda navek prishli. SHlo leto, predveshchaya torzhestva, No v sladostnom predchuvstvii plodov Pechal'nye stoyali dereva, Beremennyh napominaya vdov, I dazhe v izobilii shchedrot, O lete letom vse eshche skorbya, YA videl upovanie sirot; Kazalos', pticy nemy bez tebya. A v shchebete preryvistom toska. Bledneyut list'ya, i zima blizka. Sonnet XCVIII From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed it winterstill, and you away, As with your shadow I with these did play. YA bez tebya perezhival vesnu, Kogda, roskoshno pestr, aprel' voskres I, smehom narushaya tishinu, V nochi plyasal Saturn-tyazheloves, No pen'e ptic i zapahi cvetov Istorij ne mogli mne darovat', I, odinokij, ne byl ya gotov Cvety blagouhannye sryvat'. Ni lilij belyh ya ne ocenil, Ni roz, chej soblaznitelen bagrec, Nastol'ko obraz tvoj menya plenil, Dlya nih dlya vseh prelestnyj obrazec. CHto mne vesna! Zima v ee chertah. Lish' ten' tvoya mne videlas' v cvetah. Sonnet XCIX The forward violet thus did I chide: Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd. The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair; The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both, And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee. Moshennica-fialka, - govoryu, - Pohitila tonchajshij aromat Iz ust, lyubov' moya, tvoih; zaryu Prisvoil by bledneyushchij zakat. ZHil ni za chto tebe ne otvoryu, No ch'ya zhe krov' po lepestkam tekla, Kak ne tvoya, hotya ne vidno ran? Ne liliya, ruka tvoya bela, Volos tvoih podob'e - majoran. Rumyana roza ili zhe bledna, U toj i u drugoj tvoj cvet lica. No rozam krazha vse-taki vredna: Zaraza tajno tochit im serdca. Sredi cvetov ya tvoj revnivyj strazh. YA nichego ne vizhu, krome krazh. Sonnet C Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long, To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light? Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem, In gentle numbers time so idly spent; Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey, If Time have any wrinkle graven there; If any, be a satire to decay, And make time's spoils despised every where. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life, So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. Opomnis', Muza! CHto zhe ty molchish'? Zabyla, kto tebe daruet svet? Svoe ty vdohnoven'e omrachish', Predpochitaya nizmennyj predmet. Zabyvchivaya Muza! Pospeshi! Kosnut'sya novoj rifmoyu pora Vzyskatel'nogo uha i dushi, Otkuda slava tvoego pera. Vstan', Muza, posvyati lyubvi svoj lad, Uzrev morshchiny na ee chele; Ty zaklejmi satiroyu raspad, Osparivaya vremya na zemle. Pust' u nego kosa i nozh krivoj, Za krasotu stih opolchitsya tvoj. Sonnet CI O truant Muse what shall be thy amends For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed? Both truth and beauty on my love depends; So dost thou too, and therein dignified. Make answer Muse: wilt thou not haply say, "Truth needs no colour, with his colour fixed; Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay; But best is best, if never intermixed'? Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee To make him much outlive a gilded tomb And to be praised of ages yet to be. Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how To make him seem, long hence, as he shows now. Lentyajka-muza! CHem ty zanyata? Molchanie dosadnoe prervi! Ty vidish': vmeste s pravdoj krasota, Kak ty, zavisyat ot moej lyubvi. Byt' mozhet, Muza, skazhesh' ty v otvet, CHto ne byvaet pravdy raspisnoj I chto u krasoty prirodnyj cvet, Ne trebuyushchij kraski zakaznoj? Konechno, on horosh i bez pohval, No, Muza, ty molchanie narush', CHtob nad vekami vostorzhestvoval On, perezhiv zlatoj grobnicy glush'. Ty, Muza, sdelat' mozhesh' tak, pover', CHtoby siyal on vechno, kak teper'. Sonnet CII My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear; That love is merchandized, whose rich esteeming, The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere. Our love was new, and then but in the spring, When I was wont to greet it with my lays; As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, And stops his pipe in growth of riper days: Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, But that wild music burthens every bough, And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue: Because I would not dull you with my song. Sil'nej moya lyubov', no neprilichno Mne shchegolyat' vliyan'em skrytyh char, Kak budto vystavit' gotov publichno YA na prodazhu redkostnyj tovar. Kogda lyubov' moya byla nova, Zvuchal vo mne bezuderzhnyj motiv, Kak Filomela shchelkaet sperva, Svoyu cevnicu pozzhe zataiv. Ne to chtoby vesna byla milej, CHem pozdnim letom shchedrye sady; Vetvyam ot pesen dikih tyazhelej, No bystro priedayutsya plody. K lyubovnym pesnyam slishkom ty privyk. Ne luchshe li mne priderzhat' yazyk? Sonnet CIII Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth, That having such a scope to show her pride, The argument all bare is of more worth Than when it hath my added praise beside! O! blame me not, if I no more can write! Look in your glass, and there appears a face That over-goes my blunt invention quite, Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace. Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, To mar the subject that before was well? For to no other pass my verses tend Than of your graces and your gifts to tell; And more, much more, than in my verse can sit, Your own glass shows you when you look in it. Uvy! Kak Muza u menya bedna, No, dumaetsya, net ee viny V tom, chto hvala niskol'ko ne nuzhna, Kogda prelestnoj teme net ceny. Ty vidish', ne pishu ya nichego, No na sebya ty v zerkalo vzglyani; YA tol'ko zhertva bleska tvoego, I posramlen moj stih v tvoej teni. Ne greh li pohvaloyu zapyatnat' To, chto prekrasno bez pohval moih? Kak byt'? YA ne hochu drugogo znat'. Drugih krasot chuzhdaetsya moj stih. I v tom li stih moj bednyj vinovat, CHto v zerkale ty krashe vo sto krat? Sonnet CIV To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold, Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd, In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd: For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. Moj drug, ty ne stareesh' dlya menya, Hot' minovali celyh tri zimy S togo obvorozhitel'nogo dnya, Kogda naveki povstrechalis' my. No trizhdy leto minulo s teh por; V lesah osennij plamenel myatezh. I ubedilsya moj vlyublennyj vzor: Kto zelen byl, tot i segodnya svezh. Pust' solnechnye ne speshat chasy, Idut oni, prohodyat vse ravno, I ubyl' upoitel'noj krasy, Byt' mozhet, mne zametit' ne dano. Pust' bylo leto krasoty mertvo, No tol'ko do rozhden'ya tvoego. Sonnet CV Let not my love be called idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show, Since all alike my songs and praises be To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence; Therefore my verse to constancy confined, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument, Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words; And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone, Which three till now, never kept seat in one. Ne idolopoklonnik ya, o net! Zvat' idolom lyubov' moyu greshno. Odin i tot zhe ya poyu predmet, I dragocenno dlya menya odno. Ty dobr segodnya, kak ty byl vchera, Kak budesh' zavtra, i v stihe moem Lish' postoyanstvo tvoego dobra, Prisushchee mne lish' s toboj vdvoem. "Krasiv, i dobr, i veren", - ves' moj skaz. "Krasiv, i dobr, i veren", - ty prosti. Sostavit' ne mogu izyashchnej fraz, Ne znayu, chto eshche izobresti. Krasiv, i dobr, i veren ty odin, V edinstvennom lice moj gospodin. Sonnet CVI When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have express'd Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And for they looked but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. Kogda ya v hronikah proshedshih let CHitayu, glyadya vsled bylym godam, V kakih izyashchnyh rifmah byl vospet Sonm rycarej i nenaglyadnyh dam, Lish' tvoj proobraz v nih ya uznayu, Usta tvoi, glaza, chelo i brov'; Perom starinnym krasotu tvoyu Poety risovali vnov' i vnov'. Prorocheskij togda byl vzor i stih. Oni tebya provideli vdali, No prelestej nevidannyh tvoih Vospet' kak podobaet ne mogli. Ty na glazah u nas, u goremyk, No gde zhe vzyat' nam dlya hvaly yazyk? Sonnet CVII Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, And the sad augurs mock their own presage; Incertainties now crown themselves assured, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time, My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. Ni mirovaya chutkaya dusha, Ni mysl' moya sredi moih trevog Ne zashchityat, predchuvstviem strasha, Lyubov' moyu, sud'by moej zalog. Zatmen'e preterpet' lune dano, Smeshat avgurov predskazan'ya smut, Neyasnoe teper' proyasneno. Olivy mira bez konca rastut. Dlya ran lyubovnyh vremya - eliksir, I, kazhetsya, mne smert' podchinena; I ya v moih stihah bessmertno sir, Bezgramotnye vymrut plemena. Moim stiham nevedom etot risk. Drugoj tebe ne nuzhen obelisk. Sonnet CVIII What's in the brain, that ink may character, Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit? What's new to speak, what now to register, That may express my love, or thy dear merit? Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, I must each day say o'er the very same; Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name. So that eternal love in love's fresh case, Weighs not the dust and injury of age, Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, But makes antiquity for aye his page; Finding the first conceit of love there bred, Where time and outward form would show it dead. Tvoj priznak ne taitsya li v mozgu Moem, poka chernilam neizvestnyj, I ya dopolnit' razve ne mogu Tvoih dostoinstv perechen' prelestnyj? Vse skazano, moj milyj mal'chik, da, Blagoslovennym imenem tvoim. YA tvoj, ty moj, nadeyus', navsegda, S teh por kak my drug drugom dorozhim. Lyubov' ne ustrashitsya godovshchin. Pust' vozrast nacheku, revnivyj strazh; Plenitel'noj lyubvi ne do morshchin, I vremya dlya nee - vsego lish' pazh. Puskaj lyubov' poroj mertva na vid, Ee i smert' sama ne umertvit. Sonnet CIX O! Never say that I was false of heart, Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify, As easy might I from my self depart As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie: That is my home of love: if I have ranged, Like him that travels, I return again; Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that myself bring water for my stain. Never believe though in my nature reigned, All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so preposterously be stained, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good; For nothing this wide universe I call, Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all. Opaloj moemu ognyu grozya, Menya ty za izmenu ne sudi. Mne brosit' samogo sebya nel'zya, Kogda moya dusha v tvoej grudi. Vot milyj dom lyubvi moej, kuda Vernus' ya, buduchi v puti davno. Vsegda so mnoyu chistaya voda, CHtob smyt' s menya pozornoe pyatno. Puskaj v moej krovi grehi kipyat, Pust' v kazhdoj kaple mnozhitsya porok, Oni menya edva li oslepyat Nastol'ko, chtob ya luchshim prenebreg. Ves' mir - nichto. Morochit on, draznya. Ty roza. Vse ty v mire dlya menya. Sonnet CX Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there, And made my self a motley to the view, Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, Made old offences of affections new; Most true it is, that I have looked on truth Askance and strangely; but, by all above, These blenches gave my heart another youth, And worse essays proved thee my best of love. Now all is done, have what shall have no end: Mine appetite I never more will grind On newer proof, to try an older friend, A god in love, to whom I am confined. Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. Ne skroyu: vyhodil ya na bazar, Gde shutovskim naryadom shchegolyal I, prevrashchaya mysl' moyu v tovar, Byloe novoj strast'yu oskorblyal. Ne skroyu: ya smotrel na pravdu vkos', V durnyh soblaznah molodost' gubya, No vybelit' mne serdce dovelos': Obrel ya v hudshem luchshee - tebya. Ne nuzhno bol'she gibel'nyh potug, ZHelanie moe utoleno; Raz navsegda ispytan vernyj drug, Bog lyubyashchij, i s nim ya zaodno. Privet' menya, ty skorb' moyu razvej, I ya na nebe, na grudi tvoej. Sonnet CXI O! for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer's hand: Pity me, then, and wish I were renewed; Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink Potions of eisell "gainst my strong infection; No bitterness that I will bitter think, Nor double penance, to correct correction. Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye, Even that your pity is enough to cure me. Ne gorshe li tebe den' oto dnya Fortunu klyast', chej pr