Male C. Pig a.k.a. Svinopolist (piggymouse) wrote,
Male C. Pig a.k.a. Svinopolist
piggymouse

Portrait of the Only True Doctor as a Young Man

Доктора Донна, как и других метафизиков, стоит читать за е1анутые умствования и полное отсутствие границ в выборе метафор и т.п. До того, как двадцатый век (и лично не будем говорить кто) расставил всё по местам, метафизиков вообще считали за ботанов и лохов позорных. Товарищ Драйден например в своей знаменитой фразе высказывается о Донне так: "He affects the Metaphysics, not only in his Satires, but in his amorous Verses, where Nature only should reign; and perplexes the Minds of the fair Sex with nice speculations of Philosophy, when he should engage their Hearts, and entertain them with the softnesses of Love." Мойша, скажем мы на это, и эти туповатые классицисты с семками и пивом ещё будут учить настоящих пацанов, как смешить умных женщин.

@yan, там опять те самые рифмы, кстати говоря.

The Damp

When I am dead, and doctors know not why,
        And my friends’ curiosity
Will have me cut up to survey each part,
When they shall find your picture in my heart,
        You think a sudden damp of love
        Will thorough all their senses move,
And work on them as me, and so prefer
Your murder to the name of massacre,
 
Poor victories; but if you dare be brave,	
        And pleasure in your conquest have,
First kill th’ enormous giant, your Disdain;
And let th’ enchantress Honour, next be slain;
        And like a Goth or Vandal rise,
        Deface records and histories
Of your own arts and triumphs over men,
And without such advantage kill me then,

For I could muster up, as well as you,
        My giants, and my witches too,
Which are vast Constancy and Secretness;
But these I neither look for nor profess;
        Kill me as woman, let me die
        As a mere man; do you but try
Your passive valour, and you shall find then,
Naked you have odds enough of any man.

The Relic

      When my grave is broke up again
      Some second guest to entertain,
      — For graves have learn’d that woman-head,
      To be to more than one a bed —
      And he that digs it, spies
A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,
      Will not he let us alone,	
And think that there a loving couple lies,
Who thought that this device might be some way
To make their souls at the last busy day
Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?
 
      If this fall in a time, or land,	
      Where mass-devotion doth command,	
      Then he that digs us up will bring	
      Us to the bishop or the king,
      To make us relics; then	
Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I
      A something else thereby;	
All women shall adore us, and some men.	
And, since at such time miracles are sought,
I would have that age by this paper taught	
What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.	
 
      First we loved well and faithfully,	
      Yet knew not what we loved, nor why;	
      Difference of sex we never knew,
      No more than guardian angels do;	
      Coming and going we
Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;
      Our hands ne’er touch’d the seals,	
Which nature, injured by late law, sets free.
These miracles we did; but now alas!
All measure, and all language, I should pass,
Should I tell what a miracle she was.
Tags: donne, poetry
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