Tired with all these, for restful death I cry:
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabl d,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
66
Устав, взываю к Смерти: – Нет терпенья
Достоинство с рожденья в нищете,
Нарядное ничтожество в веселье,
И вера позабыта в суете,
И почесть воздают не по заслугам,
И добродетель век глумясь растлил,
И совершенство оболгали слухом,
И мощь правитель в немощь превратил,
И власть лишила голоса искусство,
И знаниями блажь руководит,
И дурью честность нарекло холуйство,
И зло добру прислуживать велит.
Устав так жить, ушёл бы раньше срока,
Боюсь любовь оставить одинокой.
67
Ah wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace itself with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeming of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins,
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his gains?
O him she stores, to show what wealth she had,
In days long since, before these last so bad.
67
Зачем он должен жить среди пороков,
Украсив их присутствием своим,
Чтоб тяжкий грех, укрывшись от упрёков,
Себя связал ещё прочнее с ним?
Зачем цвет мёртвых красок подражает