We’ll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly,

Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy:

Fish-dinners will make a man spring like a flea,

Dame Venus, love’s lady,

Was born of the sea:

With her and with Bacchus we’ll tickle the sense,

For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.

Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown’d

And kills with each glance as she treads on the ground.

Whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendour

That one but the stars

Are thought fit to attend her,

Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense,

Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.

Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears,

Turn all our tranquill’ty to sighs and to tears?

Let’s eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us,

’Tis certain, Post mortem

Nulla voluptas.

For health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and sense,

Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence.

Томас Джордан (ок. 1612–1685)

Coronemus nos Rosis antequam marcescant^[18]

Будем пить, веселиться, играть и шутить,

На теорбе играть и бордоское пить!

Как наш свет ненадежен, как трудно идти —

Потому все богатства

Прахом пусти!

Избавляйся от мелких и крупных монет:

Все равно нас не будет спустя сотню лет.

Развлекут нас собой Молли, Бетти и Долли,

Раки, устрицы вылечат от меланхолий,

Рыбный ужин заставит скакать кавалера;

Помни: в пене морской

Родилася Венера,

Так ее вместе с Вакхом восславить нам след,

Все равно уж не жить нам спустя сотню лет.

Вот невеста твоя в подвенечном наряде,

С легкой поступью, с силой смертельной во взгляде,

Вся мила, вся бела, так сияет она,

Словно нá небе звезды,

А может, луна…

Та красавица, коей чудеснее нет,

Будет сгнившим скелетом спустя сотню лет.

Так чего же страдать нам в трудах и работах

Нарушать наш покой, жить в печальных заботах?

Будем пить — настроенья себе не испортим,

Ведь известно, что nulla

Voluptas post mortem^[19],

От богатства, ума, красоты и побед

И следа не найдешь ты спустя сотню лет.

Перевод А. Серебренникова

Sir Roger L’Estrange (1616–1704)

Loyalty Confined

Beat on, proud billows! Boreas blow!

Swell, curlèd waves, high as Jove’s roof!

Your incivility shall know

That innocence is tempest-proof;

Though surly Nereus roar, my thoughts are calm;

Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail,

A private closet is to me;

Whilst a good conscience is my bail,

And innocence my liberty.

Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,

Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, whilst I wished to be retir’d,

Into this private room was turn’d:

As if their wisdoms had conspir’d

The salamander should be burn’d;

Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish

I am constrain’d to suffer what I wish.

So he that struck at Jason’s life,

Thinking t’ have made his purpose sure,

By a malicious friendly knife

Did only wound him to a cure;

Malice, I see, wants wit; for what it meant,

Mischief, oft-times proves favour in the event.

These manacles upon my arm

I as my sweetheart’s favours wear;

And then to keep mine ankles warm

I have some iron shackles there;

Contentment cannot smart: stoics we see

Make torments easy by their apathy.

Here sin for want of food must starve,

Where tempting objects are not seen;

And these strong walls do only serve

To keep vice out, and keep me in;

Malice of late grows charitable sure,

I’m not committed, but am kept secure.

When once my prince affliction hath,

Prosperity does treason seem;

And to make smooth so rough a path,

I can learn patience from him;

Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart:

When kings want ease, subjects must learn to smart.