The Passionate Pilgrim. Уильям Шекспир

      Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,

      'Gainst whom the world could not hold argument,

      Persuade my heart to this false perjury?

      Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.

      A woman I forswore; but I will prove,

      Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:

      My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;

      Thy grace being gain'd cures all disgrace in me.

      My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is;

      Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine,

      Exhale this vapour vow; in thee it is:

      If broken, then it is no fault of mine.

        If by me broke, what fool is not so wise

        To break an oath, to win a paradise?

      Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook

      With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,

      Did court the lad with many a lovely look,

      Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen.

      She told him stories to delight his ear;

      She show'd him favours to allure his eye;

      To win his heart, she touch'd him here and there:

      Touches so soft still conquer chastity.

      But whether unripe years did want conceit,

      Or he refus'd to take her figur'd proffer,

      The tender nibbler would not touch the bait,

      But smile and jest at every gentle offer:

        Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward;

        He rose and ran away; ah, fool too froward!

      If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?

      O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd:

      Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove;

      Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bow'd.

      Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,

      Where all those pleasures live that art can comprehend.

      If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice;

      Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend;

      All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;

      Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire:

      Thy eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder,

      Which (not to anger bent) is music and sweet fire.

        Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong,

        To sing heavens' praise with such an earthly tongue.

      Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,

      And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,

      When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,