The Sonnets - Шекспир Уильям - Страница 9

Reserve their character with golden quill,

And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.

I think good thoughts, whilst other 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.

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.

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 gav'st, 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.

When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,

And place my merit in the eye of scorn,

Upon thy side, against my self 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 my self I do,

Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.

Such is my love, to thee I so belong,

That for thy right, my self will bear all wrong.

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 my self 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 wronk:

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.

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.

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' costs,

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 wretchcd make.

But do thy worst to steal thy self 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.

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.

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,

Tibey 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 it self, 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.

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,