Нет в мире благородней этой страсти!»

Перевод М. Вирозуба

Henry Bold (1627–1683)

At the Surrender of Oxon

Thou Man of Men, who e’re thou art,

That hast a Loyal, Royal Heart,

Despair not! though thy Fortune frown

Our Cause, is Gods, and not our Own;

’Twere sin, to harbour Jealous fears,

The World laments, for Cavaliers, Cavaliers.

Those Things (like Men) that swarm, ith’ Town

Like Motions, wander up, and down;

And were the Rogues, not full of blood,

You’d swear, they men were, made of wood:

The Fellow-feeling-wanton swears,

There are no Men, but Cavaliers, &c.

Ladies, be pearl, their Diamond Eyes,

And curse, Dame Shipton’s Prophecyes

Fearing they never shall be sped,

To wrestle, for a Maiden-head:

But feelingly, with doleful tears,

They sigh, and mourn for Cavaliers, &c.

Our grave Divines, are silenced quite.

Eclipsing thus, our Churches Light:

Religion’s made a mock, and all

Good ways, as Works, Apocryphal:

Our Gallants baffled, slaves made Peers,

While Oxford, weeps for Cavaliers, &c.

Townsmen complain, they are undone,

Their Fortunes fail, and all is gone,

Rope makers, only live in hopes,

To have good trading, for their Ropes,

And Glovers thrive, by Round-heads Ears,

When Charles returns, with’s Cavaliers, Cavaliers.

Генри Болд (1627–1683)

Сдача Оксфорда во время Гражданской войны

Я истинных мужей хвалю,

Кто сердцем верен королю;

Пусть мы пеняем на судьбу,

За Божье дело длим борьбу.

Уныние, не будь примером!

Но плач идет по кавалерам, кавалерам…

Теперь по городу всегда

Гуляет образин орда,

Их дуболомами зови,

Не будь подонки все в крови;

Но скажут те, кто той же веры:

«Нет мужа, кроме кавалера, кавалера…»

Несчастье для прекрасных дам —

Пророчит Шиптон^[23] горе вам,

Стенайте, что теперь забыт

Хранимый встарь девичий стыд,

И слезы лейте выше меры:

«Ах, где вы, где вы, кавалеры, кавалеры…»

Умолк священников синклит,

Во мраке Божий храм лежит,

В загоне вера в Божество —

Апокриф, больше ничего.

Рабам потребны званья пэров,

А Оксфорд кличет кавалеров, кавалеров…

Средь горожан тоска взросла —

Не стало больше ремесла,

Один веревочник, ей-ей,

Товару сбыт найдет для шей

Круглоголовых изуверов —

Ждем короля и кавалеров, кавалеров…

Перевод А. Серебренникова

Katherine Philips (1631/2 — 1664)

Epitaph On Her Son H[ector] P[hilips]

What on Earth deserves our trust?

Youth and beauty both are dust.

Long we gathering are with pain,

What one moment calls again.

Seven years childless marriage past,

A son, a son is born at last;

So exactly limbed and fair,

Full of good spirits, mien, and air,

As a long life promised,

Yet, in less than six weeks dead.

Too promising, too great a mind

In so small room to be confined:

Therefore, fit in Heaven to dwell,

He quickly broke the prison shell.

So the subtle alchimist,

Can’t with Hermes’ seal resist

The powerful spirit’s subtler flight,

But t’will bid him long good night.

So the Sun if it arise

Half so glorious as his eyes,

Like this infant, takes a shroud,

Buried in a morning cloud.

On the Welsh Language

If honor to an ancient name be due,

Or riches challenge it for one that’s new,

The British language claims in either sense

Both for its age, and for its opulence.

But all great things must be from us removed,

To be with higher reverence beloved.

So landskips which in prospects distant lie,

With greater wonder draw the pleasèd eye.

Is not great Troy to one dark ruin hurled?

Once the fam’d scene of all fighting world.