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Sir John Davies
(Джон Дэвис, 1569-1626)

Сонет о любви

As when the brighte Cerulian firmament
Hathe not his glory with black cloudes defas’te,
Soe were my thoughts voyde of all discontent
And with noe wyste of passions overcast;
They all were pure and cleare, till at the last
An ydle, carles thoughte forthe wandring wente,
And of that potsonous beauty tooke a taste
Which doe the harts of lovers so torment.
Then as it chauncethe in a flock of sheepe
When some contagious yll breeds first in one,
Daylie it spreeds, and secretly doth creepe
Till all the silly troupe be overgone;
So by close neighbourhood within my brest,
One scurvy thoughte infecteth all the rest.

© 2002 Elena and Yakov Feldman