Arcadia. Sir Philip Sidney

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СКАЧАТЬ target="_blank" rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_390c8382-3264-5a12-9762-503a52f11623"/> “The song contest was a standard fixture of the classical pastoral … but Sidney here plays the game in accordance with far more difficult rules, which he appears to have learned from the second eclogue of Sannazaro’s Arcadia and perhaps from the third song in the sixth book of Montemayor’s Diana [although] the content and phrasing are his own (Ringler 385).

      Thyrsis and Dorus

Thyrsis:34

      Come, Dorus, come, let songs your sorrows signify,

      and if for want of use thy mind ashamèd is,

      that very shame with love’s high title dignify.

      No style is held for base where love well namèd is.

      Each ear sucks up the words a true love scattereth,

      and plain speech oft than quaint phrase better framèd is.

      Dorus:

Nightingales seldom sing; the pie still35 chattereth.

      The wood cries most before it throughly kindled be.

      Deadly wounds inward bleed, each slight sore mattereth.

Hardly they herd, which by good hunters singled36 be.

      Shallow brooks murmur most, deep silent slide away,

nor true-love loves his loves with others mingled be.37

      Thyrsis:

If you will not be seen, go hide your face away.38

Be none of us, or else maintain our fashion.39

      Who frowns at others’ feasts doth better bide away,

      but if you have a love, in that love’s passion

      I challenge you by show of her perfection

      which of us two deserves the most compassion.

      Dorus:

      Your challenge great, but greater my protection.

      Sing then, and see (for now you have inflamèd me)

      your health too mean a match for my infection.

      No, though the heavens for high attempts have blamèd me,

      yet high is my attempt. O muse, historify

      her praise, whose praise to learn your skill hath framèd me.

      Thyrsis:

      Muse, hold your peace. But you, my god Pan, glorify

      my Kala’s gifts, who with all good gifts fillèd is.

      Your pipe, ô Pan, shall help, though I sing sorrily.

      A heap of sweets she is, where nothing spillèd is,

      who, though she be no bee, yet full of honey is—

      a lily field with plow of rose which tilled is,

      mild as a lamb, more dainty than a cony is.

      Her eyes my eyesight is. Her conversation

      more glad to me than to a miser money is.

      What coy account she makes of estimation,

how nice to touch, how all her speeches peizèd40 be.

      A nymph thus turned, but mended in translation.

      Dorus:

      Such Kala is, but ah, my fancies raisèd be

      in one whose name to name were high presumption,

      since virtues all, to make her title, pleasèd be.

      O happy gods, which by inward assumption

      enjoy her soul, in body’s fair possession,

      and keep it joined, fearing your feat’s consumption.

      How oft with rain of tears skies make confession.

      Their dwellers, rapt with sight of her perfection,

      from heavenly throne to her-heaven use digression.

      Of best things, then, what world can yield confection

      to liken her? Deck yours with your comparison:

      She is herself, of best things the collection.

      Thyrsis:

      How oft my doleful sire cried to me, “Tarry, son!”

      when first he spied my love. How oft he said to me,

      “You are no soldier fit for Cupid’s garrison.

      My son, keep this, that my long toil has laid to me:

      Love well your own; methinks wool’s whiteness passes all.

      I never found long love such wealth has paid to me.”

      This wind he spent, but when my Kala glasses all

      my sight in her fair limbs, I then assure myself

      not rotten sheep, but high crowns she surpasses all.

      Can I be poor that her gold hair procure myself?

      Want I white wool, whose eyes her white skin garnishèd?

Till I get her, shall I to sheep enure41 myself?

      Dorus:

      How oft, when reason saw love of her harnessèd

      with armor of my heart, he cried, “O vanity,

      to set a pearl in steel so meanly varnishèd.

      Look to yourself. Reach not beyond humanity.

      Her mind, beams, state, far from your weak wings banishèd,

      and love which lover hurts is inhumanity.”

      This reason said, but she came, reason vanishèd,

      her eyes so mastering me that such objection

      seemed but to spoil the food of thoughts long famishèd.

      Her peerless height my mind to high erection

draws up, and if, hope failing, end life’s pleasure,42

      of fairer death how can I make election?

Thyrsis:43

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