William Shakespeare

“To be, or not to be, that is the question…” by William Shakespeare

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Знаменитый монолог Гамлета из одноименной трагедии Уильяма (Вильяма) Шекспира (1564-1616) на английском языке и в пяти переводах на русский язык.   Полностью «Гамлет» переведен на русский язык более двадцати раз, в том числе несколько раз прозой в стремлении к максимальной точности. Однако нельзя быть точным вне поэзии. Лучше всего, если поэт и филолог сойдутся в одном лице. На рубеже нашего века появилось трехтомное издание трагедии — с текстом оригинала, комментарием, многочисленными материалами. Это был первый русский перевод, выполненный известным поэтом, великим князем Константином Романовым, подписывавшимся инициалами К.Р. Спустя тридцать лет, почти одновременно, А. Радлова, Б. Пастернак и М. Лозинский делают … Читать далее →

Sonnet 151 by William Shakespeare

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Уильям Шексир. Сонет 151 CLI Love is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove. For, thou betraying me, I do betray My nobler part to my gross body’s treason: My soul doth tell my body that he may Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason; But rising at thy name doth point out thee As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride, He is contented thy poor drudge to be, To stand in thy … Читать далее →

Sonnet 149 by William Shakespeare

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Уильям Шексир. Сонет 149 CXLIX Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not, When I against my self with thee partake? Do I not think on thee when I forgot Am of my self, all-tyrant, for thy sake? Who hateth thee that I do call my friend, On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon, Nay if thou lour’st on me do I not spend Revenge upon my self with present moan? What merit do I in my self respect, That is so proud thy service to despise, When all my best doth worship thy defect, Commanded by … Читать далее →

Sonnet 66 by William Shakespeare

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Уильям Шексир. Сонет 66 LXVI Tired with all these, for restful death I cry: As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill, And simple truth miscalled simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tired with all these, from these would I he gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) Сонет 66 Зову … Читать далее →

Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare

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Уильям Шексир. Сонет 18 XVIII Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st, Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st, So … Читать далее →

Sonnet 13 by William Shakespeare

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Уильям Шексир. Сонет 13 XIII O that you were your self, but love you are No longer yours, than you your self here live, Against this coming end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give. So should that beauty which you hold in lease Find no determination, then you were Your self again after your self’s decease, When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, Which husbandry in honour might uphold, Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day And barren rage of death’s eternal cold? O … Читать далее →

Sonnet 12 by William Shakespeare

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Уильям Шексир. Сонет 12 XII When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night, When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silvered o’er with white: When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard: Then of thy beauty do I question make That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, And die as fast … Читать далее →