Сонеты Шекспира: Вдохновение реальностью. Историческая головоломка. Александр Скальв

      Сонет 11. Оригинальный текст

      As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow’st

      In one of thine, from that which thou departest,

      And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow’st

      Thou mayst call thine, when thou from youth convertest:

      Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase,

      Without this, folly, age, and cold decay:

      If all were minded so, the times should cease,

      And threescore year would make the world away.

      Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,

      Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:

      Look whom she best endowed she gave the more;

      Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:

      She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby,

      Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

      Сонет 12. Оригинальный текст

      When I do count the clock that tells the time,

      And see the brave day sunk in hideous night,

      When I behold the violet past prime,

      And sable curls all silvered o’er with white,

      When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,

      Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,

      And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves

      Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard:

      Then of thy beauty do I question make

      That thou among the wastes of time must go,

      Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,

      And die as fast as they see others grow,

      And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make defence

      Save breed to brave him when he takes thee hence.

      Сонет 13. Оригинальный текст

      О that you were your self! but, love, you are

      No longer yours than you yourself here live;

      Against this coming end you should prepare,

      And^your sweet semblance to some other give:

      So should that beauty which you hold in lease

      Find no determination; then you were

      Your self again after yourself s decease,

      When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.

      Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,

      Which husbandry in honour might uphold

      Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day

      And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?

      O, none but unthrifts: dear my love, you know

      You had a father, let your son say so.