Материал из Wikilivres.ru
Перейти к навигацииПерейти к поиску
|
Original text:
Song 24
Absence I fled to thee
as to a quiet shore
where I my bark from tempests free might thinck
But thow dost not helpe mee
already brused sore
and whoe leakes wth mee bring wch make me sinck
Absence I fled to thee
as to a healthful shade
from those sun beames in wch my lyfe did fry
But thow dost not helpe me
already in whome made
the feuer is, in wch consumd I lie
Then showld I thee haue known
when (fond vnfortunat)
my force against the conqueror I tryde
Now wounded, ouertrown
thy armour comes too late
to warde the arrowes wch haue pearst my syde
I will then back againe
where that high beawty liues
wch him, whoe in it ioies wth sorrow Kils
And this ods is in paine
presence the green wounds giues,
Absence vncured sores wth vlcers fils
There shall I feel the heate
of pride, and scorn and hate
As heer the coles of greef, and foild desyres
But where the sun rays beate
the fire’s strength doth abate
and greefs less burn, in sight of beawties fyres
And if that dy I must
fayrer on sworde to fall
of Tyrant eyes, then pined in fetters sterue
and when the time vnjust
my lyfes light put owt shall
Shee of hate of faith I, shall name deserue
1590s-1600s
|
|
Contemporary text:
Song 24
Absence, I fled to thee
As to a quiet shore
Where I my bark from tempests free might think:
But thou dost not help me
Already bruised sore
And who leaks with me bring which make me sink.
Absence, I fled to thee
As to a healthful shade
From those sunbeams in which my life did fry:
But thou dost not help me
Already in whom made
The fever is in which consumed I lie.
Then should I thee have known
When (fond unfortunate)
My force against the conqueror I tried:
Now wounded, overthrown,
Thy armour comes too late
To ward the arrows which have pierced my side.
I will then back again
Where that high beauty lives
Which him, who in it joys, with sorrow kills:
And this odds is in pain—
Presence the green wounds gives,
Absence uncured sores with ulcers fills.
There shall I feel the heat
Of pride and scorn and hate
As here the coals of grief, and foiled desires:
But where the sun rays beat
The fire’s strength doth abate
And griefs less burn, in sight of beauty’s fires.
And if that die I must
Fairer on sword to fall
Of tyrant eyes, than pined in fetters starve:
And when the time unjust
My life’s light put out shall
She of hate, of faith I, shall name deserve.
1590s-1600s
|
|
Примечания
The last poem in the notebook, and the last in the widely spaced series of three addressed to Absence (see Sonnet 23) with deliberate echoes of the first poem in the series which concluded in favour of absence as less painful that presence.
См. также / See also
