se gold candles fixt in heaven*s air: Let them say more that like of hearsay well; I will not praise that purpose not to sell. 17. LIV O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer it we deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: 16. I , . ' , , , , . - , , , , , . ,- ! . . 17. IU , . , . , , , , , , , ,- William Shakespeare But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade; Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made. And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. 18. LXV Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? 0, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wrackful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? 0 fearful meditation! where, alack, Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold .his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? 0, none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright. 19. LXVI Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,- As, to behold Desert a beggar born, And needy Nothing trimm'd in jollity, 77 , , , . : . , . . . 18. LU , , , , , , - ? , ? , !.. , ? , , ? .. . , , ! . . 19. LUI , . , , , 78 William Shakespeare 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. 20. LXXIII That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black n'ight doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth -lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourisht by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong To love that well which thod must leave ere long. 21. LXXVII Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, 79 , , , , , , , , , , , , . , , . . . 20. LIII , , , , ... , , , , . , , , , , , , , : , . . , 21. LUII , - . - . 80 William Shakespeare And of this book this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show, Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know Time's thievish progress to eternity. Look, what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book. 22. XC Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after-loss: Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite, But in the onset come: so shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune's might; And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee will not seem so. 81 . . , . , , - . . . . 22. ,- , , . - , ! , . y - , . , , . , , , , - . . . 82 William Shakespeare 23. CXVI Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, nol it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken, It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 24. C XXX My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral.is. far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damaskt, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more. pleasing sound: I'grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare. 83 23. UI . ? . - , , . - , . - , , . ,- ! . . 24. , , , . , , - . , , . , . , , . , . . . 84 William Shakespeare FROM THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK" 0! that this too too solid flesh would melt Thaw and resolve itself into a dew; Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed! things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead! nay, not so much, not two: So excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? why, she would hang on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on; and yet, within a month - Let me not think on't.- Frailty, thy name is woman! A little month! or ere those shoes were old With which she follow'd my poor father's body, Like Niobe, all tears; why she, even she,- 0 God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn'd longer,- married with my uncle, My father's brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules. Within a month? Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married. 0, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not nor it cannot come to good; But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue! 85 , 25. , 6 , , ! ! ! ! , , ! ! , ; . ! , ! . ! - . , . ! ? , . ,- ! , : ! - , , , ,- - , , , ! - , , . ! , . - T ! ,- , , ! . . 86 William Shakespeare 26. To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind- to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? - To die; - To sleep; - No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh 'is heir to,- 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die; - to sleep; - To sleep! perchance to dream: - ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of dispised love; the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. 87 * * * 26. - ; - , , ? , - ; , , ,- ? , .- ! , ? ; , . ,- ; , c ; , , , , , . , , ? , , - - , ,- , , ? , , , , , . ! ? - , , . . . Thomas Campion FROM "A BOOKE OF AYRES" 27. When thou must home to shades of under ground, .And there ariu'd, a newe admired guest, The beauteous spirits do ingirt thee round, White lope, blith Helen, and the rest, To heare the stories of thy finisht loue From that smoothe,toong whose musicke hell can moue; Then wilt thou speake of banqueting delights-, Of masks and reuels which sweete youth did make, Of Turnies and great challenges of knights, And all these triumphes for thy beauties sake: When thou hast told these honours done to thee, Then tell, 0 tell, how thou didst murther me. 27. , , - , ,- , , , .' , - , , , . , , , . . . Ben Jonson 28. FROM "THE SAD SHEPHERD, OR A TALE OF ROBIN HOOD" Though I am young, and cannot tell, Either what Death or Love is, well, Yet I have heard they both bear darts And both do aim at human hearts: And then again, I have been told, Love wounds with heat, as Death with cold; So that I fear they do but bring Extremes to touch, and mean one thing. As in a ruin we it call One thing to be blown up, or fall; Or to our end, like way may have, By flash of lightning, or a wave: So Love's infamed shaft, or brand, May kill as soon as Death's cold hand; Except Love's fires the virtue have To fright the frost out of the grave. 28. . ? , ; , - , , . - ; , ; , . . . John Donne 29. THE GOOD-MORROW I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we lov'd? were we not wean'd till then? But suck'd on countrey pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seaven sleepers den? 'Twas so; But this, all pleasures fancies bee. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desir'd, and got, 'twas but a dreame of thee. And now good morrow to our waking soules, Which watch not. one another out of feare; For love, all love of other sights controules, And makes one little roome, an every where. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, Let Maps to others, worlds on worlds have showne, Let us possesse one world, each hath one, and is orre. My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares, And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest, Where can we finde two better hemispheares Without sharpe North, without declining. West? What ever dyes, was not mixt equally; If our two loves be one, or thou and I Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die. 30. SONG Goe, and catch a falling starre, Get with child a mandrake roote, Tell me, where all past yeares are, 29. ? . , ? ,- , . " !" , ; . ' , , ,- , ! , - , ! ? , . , . , , , . . . 30. , , ! ! ? 94 John Donne Or who cleft the Divels foot, Teach me to heare Mermaides singing, Or to keep off envies stinging, And finde What winde Serves to advance an honest minde. If thou beest borne to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand daies and nights, Till age snow white haires on thee, Thou, when thou retorn'st, wilt tell mee All strange wonders that befell thee, And sweare No where Lives a woman true, and faire. If thou findst one, let mee know, Such a Pilgrimage were sweet; Yet doe not, I would not goe, Though at next doore wee might meet, Though shee were true, when you met her, And last, till you write your letter, Yet shee Will bee False, ere I come, to two, or three. 31. A VALEDICTION: FORBIDDING MOURNING As virtuous men passe mildly away, And whisper to their soules, to goe, Whilst some of their sad friends doe say, The breath goes now, and some say, no: So let us melt, and make no noise, No teare-floods, nor sigh-tempests move, T'were prophanation of our joyes To tell the layetie our love. ? , ! , ? , , ... ... : . , ... : ,- . , , , . . . 31. , : , "" , - "". , ,- , ; . John Donne Moving of th'earth brings harmes and feares, Men reckon what it did and meant, But trepidation of the spheares, Though greater farre, is innocent. Dull sublunary lovers love (Whose soule is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it. But we by a love, so much refin'd, That our selves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care lesse, eyes, lips and hands to misse. Our two soules therefore, which are one, Though I must goe, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to ayery thinnesse beate. If they be two, they are two so As stiffe twin compasses are two, Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th'other doe. And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth rome, It leanes, and hearkens af'ter it, And growes erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to mee, who must Like th'other foot, obliquely runne; Thy firmnes makes my circle just, And makes me end, where I begunne. 97 : , , - , . - - : , . , , 6 ... ? , , - : , . . , , : . , , , , , , . , - , . . . Robert Herrick 52. THE MAD MAID'S SONG Good-morrow to the day so fair, Good-morning, sir, to you; Good-morrow to mine own torn hair Bedabbled with the dew. Good-morning to this primrose too, Good-morrow to each maid That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid. . Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me! Alack and well-a-day! For pity, sir, find out that bee Which bore my love away. I'll seek him in your bonnet brave, I'll seek him in your eyes; Nay, now I think they've made his grave I' th' bed of strawberries. I'll seek him there; I know ere this The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go, or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him. Pray hurt him not; though he be dead, He knows well who do love him, And who with green turfs rear his head, And who do rudely move him. He's soft and tender (pray take heed); With bands of cowslips bind him, And bring him home - but 'tis decreed That I shall never find him! 32. , , , , ; , , ; , ... , , - , , . , ... -, : , , ; . , , , - ; ! ; , ... , . . . a George Herbert 33. VERTUE Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridall of the earth and skie: The dew shall weep thy fall to night; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye: Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie; My musick shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Onely a sweet and vertuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. . . , , , . , . , ,- , , , - , , , , , , . Edmund Waller 54. ON A GIRDLE That which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done. It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely dear: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair: Give me but what this ribbon bound, Take all the rest the Sun goes round! 34. . - , . . , . , , . , , . . . John Milton 55. ON SHAKESPEARE What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd Bones, The 1abour of an age in piled Stones, Or that his hafiow'd reliques should be hid Under a Stary-pointing Pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of Fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thy self a live-long Monument. For whilst to th' shame of slow-endeavouring art, Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Boot, Those Delphick lines with deer impression took, Then thou our fancy of it self bereaviag, Dost make us Marble with too much conceaving; And so Sepukher'd in such pomp dost lie, That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die. 36 ON HIS BLINDNNESS When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide,- Doth God exact day-labour, lihght denied? I fondly ask: - But Patience to prevent 35. , , , , , , ? , . , . , . . , . ! . . 36. , , , , , , - 106 John Milton That murmur, soon replies; God doth not need Either man's work or His own gifts: who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed And post o're land and ocean without rest: - They also serve who only stand and wait. 37. FROM PARADISE LOST BOOK III Hail, holy light, offspring of heav'n first-born Or of th' Eternal co-eternal beam May I express thee unblamed? since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate. Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream, Whose fountain who shall tell? before the sun, Before the heavens thou wert, and at. the voice Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless infinite. Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detain'd In that obscure sojourn; while in mv flight Through utter and through middle darkness borne, With other notes, than to th' Orphean lyre, I sung of Chaos and eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend, Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sov'reign vital lamp; but thou Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; 107 " , ?" - . : " . . , , ". , , , . . . 37. , , , ! , ; , . , , , - ! : . , ! ! , , , , , ! , , , , . . , , , , , 108 John Milton So thick a drop serene hath quench'd their orbs, Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more Cease I to wander where 'the Muses haunt Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief Thee Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, That wash thy hallow'd feet, and warbling flow, Nightly I visit; nor sometimes forget Those other two equall'd with me in fate, So were I equall'd with them in renown, Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides, And Tiresias and Phineus prophets old. Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid Tunes her nocturnal note: thus with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair Presented with a universal blank Of nature's works to me expunged and rased, And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou celestial Light Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight. 109 , , , ! , , , , , , ! ! ! ? ,