Сонет 66 (В. Шекспир)
Взываю к смерти, видя пустоту,
В которой глохнут стоны нищеты,
Души роскошной знати наготу,
И вероломства хищные черты.
И честь, позорно втоптанную в грязь,
И грубый торг девичьей чистотой,
И как порочит совершенство мразь,
И верх над силой слабости хромой.
Искусство у чиновника в плену,
Безумца власть над словом мудреца,
Оболганную сплетней простоту,
И доброту на службе подлеца.
Устав душой, давно бы умер я,
Когда б не думал о тебе, любовь моя.
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd 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 disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd 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.
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd 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 disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd 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.
