Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах - Антология

Passion by their Letters.

My Pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright Eyes that cannot read

Shou’d dart their kindling Fires, and look

The Pow’r they have to be obey’d.

Nor Quality, nor Reputation,

Forbid me yet my Flame to tell,

Dear Five Years old befriends my Passion,

And I may Write ’till she can Spell.

For while she makes her Silk-worms Beds

With all the tender things I swear,

Whilst all the House my Passion reads,

In Papers round her Baby’s Hair,

She may receive and own my Flame,

For tho’ the strictest Prudes shou’d know it,

She’ll pass for a most virtuous Dame,

And I for an unhappy Poet.

Then too, alas, when she shall tear

The Lines some younger Rival sends,

She’ll give me leave to Write, I fear,

And we shall still continue Friends.

For as our diff’rent Ages move,

‘Tis so ordain’d, wou’d Fate but mend it,

That I shall be past making Love,

When she begins to comprehend it.

Cloe Jealous

Forbear to ask Me, why I weep;

Vext Cloe to her Shepherd said:

Tis for my Two poor stragling Sheep

Perhaps, or for my Squirrel dead.

For mind I what You late have writ?

Your subtle Questions, and Replies;

Emblems, to teach a Female Wit

The Ways, where changing Cupid flies.

Your Riddle, purpos’d to rehearse

The general Pow’r that Beauty has:

But why did no peculiar Verse

Describe one Charm of Cloe’s Face?

The Glass, which was at Venus’ Shrine,

With such Mysterious Sorrow laid:

The Garland (and You call it Mine)

Which show’d how Youth and Beauty fade.

Ten thousand Trifles light as These

Nor can my Rage, nor Anger move:

She shou’d be humble, who wou’d please:

And She must suffer, who can love.

When in My Glass I chanc’d to look;

Of Venus what did I implore?

That ev’ry Grace which thence I took,

Shou’d know to charm my Damon more.

Reading Thy Verse; who heeds, said I,

If here or there his Glances flew?

O free for ever be His Eye,

Whose Heart to Me is always true.

My Bloom indeed, my little Flow’r

Of Beauty quickly lost it’s Pride:

For sever’d from it’s Native Bow’r,

It on Thy glowing Bosom dy’d.

Yet car’d I not, what might presage

Or withering Wreath, or fleeting Youth:

Love I esteem’d more strong than Age,

And Time less permanent than Truth.

Why then I weep, forbear to know:

Fall uncontroll’d my Tears, and free:

O Damon, ’tis the only Woe,

I ever yet conceal’d from Thee.

The secret Wound with which I bleed

Shall lie wrapt up, ev’n in my Herse:

But on my Tomb-stone Thou shalt read

My Answer to Thy dubious Verse.

Cupid Mistaken

As after noon, one summer’s day,

Venus stood bathing in a river;

Cupid a-shooting went that way,

New strung his bow, new fill’d his quiver.

With skill he chose his sharpest dart:

With all his might his bow he drew:

Swift to his beauteous parent’s heart

The too well-guided arrow flew.

I faint! I die! the Goddess cry’d:

O cruel, could’st thou find none other,

To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide!

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.

Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak;

Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye:

Alas! how easy my mistake?

I took you for your likeness, Cloe.

A Better Answer

Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face;

Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled!

Prithee quit this caprice, and (as old Falstaff says)

Let us e’en talk a little like folks of this world.

How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy

The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping?

Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy:

More ord’nary eyes may serve people for weeping.

To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ,

Your judgment at once, and my passion, you wrong:

You take that for fact which will scarce be found wit—

Od’s life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows

The diff’rence there is betwixt nature and art:

I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose;

And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.

The god of us verse-men (you know, child) the sun,

How after his journeys he sets up his rest;

If at morning o’er earth ’tis his fancy to run,

At night he reclines on his Thetis’s breast.

So when I am wearied with wand’ring all day,

To thee, my delight, in the evening I come:

No matter what beauties I saw in my way,

They were but my visits, but thou art my home.