Шекспир. Венера и Адонис (7)

Венера часто отражалась в них,
 Но вот сегодня зеркала пусты,
 Куда исчезла яркость их, живых?
 Туда же, в след мгновенной красоты...
 Она шепнула: "Есть один вопрос,
 Ты мертв, а день как день... Что ж с ним стряслось?

 Итак, ты мертв... Пророчество мое:
 Теперь любовь изведает печаль!
 Повсюду ревность влезет в ткань ее.
 О! Горя вкус у сладостных начал,
 И никогда не поровну, но так,
 Чтоб тонкий луч окутал страшный мрак!

 Страсть скоротечной будет, будет лживой,
 Ее задушит жизни суховей;
 Скрываясь под начинкою красивой,
 Измены яд погубит тьму людей
 Износит тело, мозг любовник всяк,
 И станет лишь болтающий дурак...

 Пусть жадничает, пусть бросает деньги,
 Пусть меру потеряет в ней старик,
 Бандиты будут от любви - что дети,
 Чтоб гол богач, чтоб нищий был велик,
 Рождает идиотов и буянов,
 Ребят состарит, оребячит стариканов!

 Пусть сеет страх, где страхи не при чем,
 Пусть на ужасное ведет без дрожи,
 Пусть будет благородным палачом,
 Обманывая там, где "Святый Боже!"
 Коварство носит в маске прямоты,
 Герой от труса бросится в кусты.

 Пусть станет основанием войны,
 Отца и сына пусть поднимет в бой,
 Соломинкой, рождающей огонь,
 Неся знак непрощаемой вины!
 Раз сокрушила смерть всю страсть мою,
 Любить другим я права не даю!"

 И тут валявшееся рядом тело
 Внезапно превратилось в легкий пар -
 Кровь собралась и в стебель загустела.
 И вот цветок - похожий на тюльпан...
 Так был он бел, и вместе с тем багров,
 Напоминая плоть, и вместе кровь.

 К цветку сейчас же прижимая нос,
 Искать знакомый запах рта взялася...
 И запах в сердце, как цветок, пророс...
 Хоть паром плоть по ветру унеслася.
 Сорвав, к груди бессильно прижимает,
 Из стебля сок слезою выступает.

 "Бедняжечка! - шепнуло божество. -
 Отец твой, цветик, так же плакал сладко,
 Все слезы исторгало у него,
 Все, что не он - ему бывало гадко.
 Рос для себя, а ты увянь на мне,
 А не в крови отцовской, так вернее.

 Здесь, на груди, была его постель,
 Наследовал ты право спать на ней,
 В ложбинке этой будь с тобою Лель
 И сердца стук вдоль вереницы дней;
 Чтоб я цветка не целовала - в сутки
 Без этого не минет и минутки".

 Мир ей постыл. Пора из мира ей!
 Двух вяхирей зовет с пустых небес,
 И в колесницу диких голубей
 Впрягает. Миг - и экипаж исчез...
 Свой путь держа на островок Пафос.
 И все... Вернуться ей не довелось.



 W. Shakespeare

VENUS AND ADONIS


 Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo
 Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.

 Ovidius. "De Amore"


 To the Right Honourable Henry Wriothesly,
 earl of Southampton, and baron of Titchfield.

RIGHT HONOURABLE,

 I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your
Lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to
support so weak a burden: only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account
myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I
have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my
invention proved deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a godfather, and
never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a
harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your
heart's content; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the
world's hopeful expectation.

 Your Honour's in all duty,
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

 EVEN as the sun with purple-colour'd face
 Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
 Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase;
 Hunting he lov'd, but love he laugh'd to scorn;
 Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
 And like a bold-fac'd suitor 'gins to woo him.

 'Thrice fairer than myself,' thus she began,
 'The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
 Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
 More white and red than doves or roses are;
 Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
 Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

 'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
 And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
 If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
 A thousand honey secrets shall thou know:
 Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses;
 And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses:

 'And yet not cloy thy lips with loath'd satiety,
 But rather famish them amid their plenty,
 Making them red and pale with fresh variety;
 Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
 A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
 Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.

 With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
 The precedent of pith and livelihood,
 And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
 Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good:
 Being so enrag'd, desire doth lend her force
 Courageously to pluck him from his horse.

 Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
 Under her other was the tender boy,
 Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
 With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
 She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
 He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

 The studded bridle on a ragged bough
 Nimbly she fastens; - О! how quick is love: -
 The steed is stalled up, and even now
 To tie the rider she begins to prove:
 Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,
 And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.

 So soon was she along, as he was down,
 Each leaning on their elbows and their hips:
 Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
 And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips;
 And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
 'If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.'

 He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears
 Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;
 Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs
 To fan and blow them dry again she seeks:
 He saith she is immodest, blames her miss;
 What follows more she murders with a kiss.

 Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
 Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,
 Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
 Till either gorge be stuff d or prey be gone;
 Even so she kiss'd his brow, his cheek, his chin,
 And where she ends she doth anew begin.

 Forc'd to content, but never to obey,
 Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face;
 She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey,
 And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace;
 Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
 So they were dew'd with such distilling showers.

 Look! how a bird lies tangled in a net,
 So fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies;
 Pure shame and aw'd resistance made him fret,
 Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:
 Rain added to a river that is rank
 Perforce will force it overflow the bank.

 Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,
 For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;
 Still is he sullen, still he lowers and frets,
 'Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale;
 Being red, she loves him best; and being white,
 Her best is better'd with a more delight.

 Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;
 And by her fair immortal hand she swears,
 From his soft bosom never to remove,
 Till he take truce with her contending tears,
 Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet;
 And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.

 Upon this promise did he raise his chin
 Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave,
 Who, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in;
 So offers he to give what she did crave;
 But when her lips were ready for his pay,
 He winks, and turns his lips another way.

 Never did passenger in summer's heat
 More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.
 Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;
 She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn:
 'O! pity,' 'gan she cry, 'flint-hearted boy:
 'Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?