That they shall grieve they liv’d not in these times

To have seen thee, their sex’s only glory.

So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng,

Still to survive in my immortal song.

* * *

Calling to mind since first my love begun,

  Th’uncertain times, oft varying in their course,

  How things still unexpectedly have run,

  As’t please the Fates by their resistless force;

  Lastly, mine eyes amazedly have seen

  Essex’s great fall, Tyrone his peace to gain,

  The quiet end of that long living Queen,

  This King’s fair entrance, and our peace with Spain,

  We and the Dutch at length ourselves to sever;

  Thus the world doth and evermore shall reel;

  Yet to my goddess am I constant ever,

  Howe’er blind Fortune turn her giddy wheel;

  Though heaven and earth prove both to me untrue,

  Yet am I still inviolate to you.

* * *

The glorious Sun went blushing to his bed;

When my soul’s sun from her fair cabinet

Her golden beams had now discovered,

Lightening the world eclipsed by his set.

Some mused to see the earth envy the air,

Which from her lips exhaled refined sweet;

A world to see, yet how he joyed to hear

The dainty grass make music with her feet.

But my most marvel was when from the skies

So comet-like each star advanced her light,

As though the heaven had now awaked her eyes,

And summoned angels to this blessed sight.

No cloud was seen, but crystalline the air.

Laughing for joy upon my lovely fair.

* * *

Black pitchy night, companion of my woe,

The inn of care, the nurse of dreary sorrow,

Why lengthenest thou thy darkest hours so,

Still to prolong my long-time-looked-for morrow?

Thou sable shadow, image of despair,

Portrait of hell, the air’s black mourning weed,

Recorder of revenge, remembrancer of care,

The shadow and the veil of every sinful deed;

Death like to thee, so live thou still in death,

The grave of joy, prison of day’s delight;

Let heavens withdraw their sweet ambrosian breath,

Nor moon nor stars lend thee their shining light;

        For thou alone renew’st that old desire,

        Which still torments me in day’s burning fire.

* * *

Yet read at last the story of my woe,

  The dreary abstracts of my endless cares,

  With my life’s sorrow interlined so,

  Smoked with my sighs, and blotted with my tears,

  The sad memorials of my miseries,

  Penned in the grief of mine afflicted ghost,

  My life’s complaint in doleful elegies,

  With so pure love as time could never boast.

  Receive the incense which I offer here,

  By my strong faith ascending to thy fame,

  My zeal, my hope, my vows, my praise, my prayer,

  My soul’s oblations to thy sacred name;

  Which name my Muse to highest heavens shall raise,

  By chaste desire, true love, and virtuous praise.

Майкл Дрейтон (1563–1631)

Азенкур

Во Францию пора!

Попутные ветра

Подули нам — ура!

Война в разгаре!

Доплыли мы легко

До устья Сены, в Ко:

Привел нас далеко

Державный Гарри.

Был каждый вражий форт

Пред нами распростерт —

Кто весел был и горд,

Остался хмурым!

Ни дня без битвы нет…

Но показал рассвет

Французской рати цвет

Под Азенкуром.

Их коннетабль-нахал

Герольда к нам прислал:

Чтоб Генрих выкуп дал,

Он сразу хочет.

Но негодяям тот

Ответа не дает:

Улыбкой тьму невзгод

Врагу пророчит.

Такую речь тотчас

Завел король для нас:

— Их больше в десять раз,

Но нам не страшно.

Мы в битву поспешим,

Француза сокрушим,

Победой завершим

Бой рукопашный.

Что сам я, — молвил он, —

Доставлю им урон

Иль буду тут сражен —

Любому явно.