Текст песни Уильям Шекспир - Сонет 102
- Исполнитель: Уильям Шекспир
- Название песни: Сонет 102
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Текст песни
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.
Перевод песни
My love is strngth'ned, Though More Weak In Seming;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 WHAT 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
Thanw Her Mournful Hymns Did Hush The Night,
But That Wild Music Burty 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.
(The option I got used to hear)
I love - but less often talking about it,
I love gentle, but not for many eyes.
Sells feeling the one that in front of the light
The whole soul puts off the head.
I met the song, as greetings,
When Nova's love was for us.
So nightinglets threatening at midnight hour
In the spring, but the flute forget in the summer.
Night will not lose the charms of yours
When it is smelled to the outpour.
But music, sound from all branches,
Ordinary becoming, loses charm.
And I'm silent like a nightingale:
I miss my own and no longer.