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

“Love's Exchange” by John Donne

Как и обещал, продолжаю про поэзию и философию, причём практически в одном флаконе. Ниже приведена иллюстрация того широко известного, но от того не менее примечательного факта, что старшее поколение метафизиков (например ыыы Донн) писало пралюбов не хуже младшего (например ыыы Марвелл). Орфография и пунктуация — аккуратно по изданию “Songsъ andъ Sonetsъ” 1635 года разлива.

Loves exchange.

Love, any devill else but you,
Would for a given Soule give something too.
At Court your fellowes every day,
Give th' art of Riming, Huntsmanship or play,
For them which were their owne before;
Onely I have nothing, which gave more,
But am, alas, by being lowly, lower.

I aske no dispensation now
To falsifie a teare, or sigh, or vow,
I doe not sue from thee to draw
A non obstante on natures law,
These are prerogatives, they inhere
In thee and thine; none should forsweare
Except that he Loves minion were.

Give me thy weaknesse, make me blinde,
Both wayes, as thou and thine; in eyes and minde;
Love, let me never know that this
Is love, or, that love childish is.
Let me not know that others know
That she knowes my paines, least that so
A tender shame make me mine owne new woe.

If thou give nothing, yet thou art just,
Because I would not thy first motions trust;
Small townes which stand stiffe, till great shot
Enforce them, by warres law, condition not.
Such in loves warfare is my case,
I may not article for grace,
Having put love at last to shew this face.

This face, by which he could command
And change the Idolatry of any Land,
This face, which wheresoe'r it comes,
Can call vow'd men frõ cloysters, dead from tombes
And melt both Poles at once, and store
Deserts with Cities, and make more
Mynes in the earth, then Quarries were before.

For, this love is inrag'd with mee,
Yet kils not; if I must example bee
To future Rebels; If th'unborne
Must learne, by my being cut up, and torne:
Kill, and dissect me, Love; for this
Torture against thine owne end is,
Rack't carcasses make ill Anatomies.
Tags: donne, poetry

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