В. Шекспир. Сонет 86

 Сонет 86

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?

Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.

He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence: 

But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.

               ***
Его  ль талант  бодрей  морского  бриза
Догнал  тебя  и  страстью  опалил?
Он  заживо,  по  мании  каприза,
Способности  мои  похоронил.
 
Небес  ли  вдохновенная  рука
Его  рукой  божественно  водила,
Моей  же  музе  строго  присудила
Молчать  на  все  грядущие  века?

Не  запугать  меня  ни  духу,  ни  уменью;
В  той  скверне  не  дано  им  преуспеть.
Я  прекратил  глаголать,  гимны  петь
Благодаря  душевному  смятенью:

О  Нём  одном  уста  твои  твердят...
И  мой  талант  завял,  как  старый  сад.