Уильям Шекспир - Сонет 102
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Уильям Шекспир - Сонет 102 - оригинальный текст песни, перевод, видео
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My love is strength'ned, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear:
That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And stops his pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.
(тот вариант, который я уже привыкла слышать)
Люблю, - но реже говорю об этом,
Люблю нежней, - но не для многих глаз.
Торгует чувством тот, что перед светом
Всю душу выставляет напоказ.
Тебя встречал я песней, как приветом,
Когда любовь нова была для нас.
Так соловей гремит в полночный час
Весной, но флейту забывает летом.
Ночь не лишится прелести своей,
Когда его умолкнут излиянья.
Но музыка, звуча со всех ветвей,
Обычной став, теряет обаянье.
И я умолк подобно соловью:
Свое пропел и больше не пою.
I love not less, though less the show appear:
That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And stops his pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.
(тот вариант, который я уже привыкла слышать)
Люблю, - но реже говорю об этом,
Люблю нежней, - но не для многих глаз.
Торгует чувством тот, что перед светом
Всю душу выставляет напоказ.
Тебя встречал я песней, как приветом,
Когда любовь нова была для нас.
Так соловей гремит в полночный час
Весной, но флейту забывает летом.
Ночь не лишится прелести своей,
Когда его умолкнут излиянья.
Но музыка, звуча со всех ветвей,
Обычной став, теряет обаянье.
И я умолк подобно соловью:
Свое пропел и больше не пою.
My love is strength'ned, Thumbe More Weak in SeeMing;
I Love Not Less, Thumbh Less the Show Appear:
That love is Merchandided Who Rich Esteoming
The Owner's Tongue Doth Public EVERY WHERE.
OUR LOVE WAS New, and then but in the Spring,
When I Was Wont to Greet it with My Lays,
As Philomel in Summer's Front Doth Sing,
And Stops His Pipe in Growth of Riper Days:
Not that the Summer Is Less Pleasant now
That how he is mournful Hymns Did Hush The Night,
But that Wild Music Burthens EVERY BOUGH,
And Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight.
TheFore Like Her, I Sometime Hold My Tongue,
Because I Would Not Dull You with My Song.
(The option that I am already used to hearing)
I love - but less often I'm talking about this,
I love more tender - but not for many eyes.
The one that is in front of the light sells
He flaunts the whole soul.
I met you with a song, like greetings
When love was new for us.
So the nightingale thunders at midnight hour
In the spring, but the flute forgets in the summer.
The night will not lose its charms,
When he is silent.
But music, sound from all branches,
Having become ordinary, loses charm.
And I fell silent like a nightingale:
I sang and I don’t sing anymore.
I Love Not Less, Thumbh Less the Show Appear:
That love is Merchandided Who Rich Esteoming
The Owner's Tongue Doth Public EVERY WHERE.
OUR LOVE WAS New, and then but in the Spring,
When I Was Wont to Greet it with My Lays,
As Philomel in Summer's Front Doth Sing,
And Stops His Pipe in Growth of Riper Days:
Not that the Summer Is Less Pleasant now
That how he is mournful Hymns Did Hush The Night,
But that Wild Music Burthens EVERY BOUGH,
And Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight.
TheFore Like Her, I Sometime Hold My Tongue,
Because I Would Not Dull You with My Song.
(The option that I am already used to hearing)
I love - but less often I'm talking about this,
I love more tender - but not for many eyes.
The one that is in front of the light sells
He flaunts the whole soul.
I met you with a song, like greetings
When love was new for us.
So the nightingale thunders at midnight hour
In the spring, but the flute forgets in the summer.
The night will not lose its charms,
When he is silent.
But music, sound from all branches,
Having become ordinary, loses charm.
And I fell silent like a nightingale:
I sang and I don’t sing anymore.
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