Shakespeare in my Heart

Today, when the world, the weather, and my soul are squeezed with pain and cold, I am reminded of my favorite Shakespeare sonnet. I would say it myself, but why? He wrote it so much better I could ever do. I would only add the word “blood” in every line of his, though:

Tir’d 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 guilded 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.

 

Измучась всем, я умереть хочу.
Тоска смотреть, как мается бедняк
И как, шутя, живётся богачу,
И доверять, и попадать впросак;
И наблюдать, как наглость лезет в свет,
И честь девичья катится ко дну.
И знать, что ходу совершенствам нет,
И видеть мощь у немощи в плену,
И вспоминать, что мысли замкнут рот,
И разум сносит глупости хулу,
И прямодушье простотой слывёт,
И доброта прислуживает злу.
Измучась всем, не стал бы жить и дня,
Да другу будет трудно без меня.

Translation by B.Pasternak


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