Arcadia. Sir Philip Sidney

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      for they were ever in the best degree,

      but yet a setting forth it some way lent,

      as rubies luster when they rubbèd be.

      The dainty dew on face and body went

      as on sweet flowers when morning’s drops we see.

      Her breath, then short, seemed loath from home to pass.

      The more it moved, the more it sweeter was.

      Happy, ô happy! if they so might bide,

      to see her eyes. With how true humbleness

      they lookèd down to triumph over pride.

      With how sweet sauce she blamed their sauciness

      to feel the panting heart which through her side

      did beat their hands, which dared so near to press,

      to see, to feel, to hear, to taste, to know

      more than (besides her) all the earth could show.

      But never did Medea’s golden weed

      on Creon’s child its poison sooner throw

      than those delights through all their sinews breed

      a creeping serpentlike of mortal woe,

      till she broke from their arms (although, indeed,

      going from them, from them she could not go)

      and fare-welling the flock did homeward wend.

      And so that eve, the Barley-Break did end.

      It ended, but the other woe began—

      began at least to be conceived as woe.

      For then wise Claius found no absence can

      help him, who can no more her sight forgo.

      He found man’s virtue is but part of man,

      and part must follow where whole man doth go.

      He found that reason’s self now reasons found

      to fasten knots, which fancy first had bound.

      So does he yield, so takes he on his yoke,

      not knowing who did draw with him therein.

      Strephon, poor youth, because he saw no smoke,

      did not conceive what fire he had within.

      But after this to greater rage it broke,

      till of his life it did full conquest win,

      first killing mirth, then banishing all rest,

      filling his eyes with tears, with sighs his breast.

      Then sports grew pains, all talking tedious.

      On thoughts he feeds. His looks their figure change.

      The day seems long, but night is odious.

      No sleeps but dreams; no dreams, but visions strange,

      till finding still his ill increasing thus,

      one day he with his flock abroad did range:

      and coming where he hoped to be alone,

      thus on a hillock set, he made his moan:

      “Alas, what weights are there that load my heart!

      I am as dull as winter-starvèd sheep,

      tired as a jade in over-loaden cart,

      yet thoughts do fly, though I can hardly creep.

      All visions seem, at every bush I start.

      Drowsy am I, and yet can rarely sleep.

      Sure I bewítchèd am. It is even that:

      late near a cross I met an ugly cat.

      “For but by charms, how fall these things on me,

      that from those eyes, where heavenly apples been,

      those eyes, which nothing like themselves can see,

      of fair Urania, fairer than a green

      proudly bedecked in April’s livery,

      a shot unheard gave me a wound unseen?

      He was invisible that hurt me so,

      and none invisible, but spirits, can go.

      “When I see her, my sinews shake for fear,

      and yet, dear soul, I know she hurteth none.

      Amid my flock with woe my voice I hear,

      and, but bewitched, who to his flock would moan?

      Her cherry lips, milk hands, and golden hair

      I still do see, though I be still alone.

      Now make me think that there is not a fiend

      who, hid in angel’s shape, my life would end.

      “The sports wherein I wanted to do well,

      come she, and sweet the air with open breast,

      then so I fail, when most I would do well,

      that at me so amazed my fellows jest.

      Sometimes to her news of myself to tell

      I go about, but then is all my best

      wry words and stamm’ring, or else doltish dumb.

      Say then, can this but of enchantment come?

      “Nay, each thing is bewitched to know my case.

      The nightingales for woe their songs refrain.

      In river, as I looked, my pining face—

      as pined a face as mine—I saw again.

      The courteous mountains, grieved at my disgrace,

      their snowy hair tear off in melting pain.

      And now the dropping trees do weep for me,

      and now fair evenings СКАЧАТЬ