Всю жизнь любовью пламенной сгорая,Мечтал я в ад попасть, чтоб отдохнуть от рая.
"All pictures that's panted with sense and with thought..."
"All pictures that's panted with sense and with thought..."
All pictures that's panted with sense and with thoughtAre panted by madmen, as sure as a groat;For the greater the fool is the pencil more blest,As when they are drunk they always pant best.They never can Raphael it, Fuseli it, nor Blake it;If they can't see an outline, pray how can they make it?When men will draw outlines begin you to jaw them;Madmen see outlines and therefore they draw them.
«Чувства и мысли в картине нашедший...»
Перевод В. Потаповой
Чувства и мысли в картине нашедшийСмекнет, что ее написал сумасшедший.Чем больше дурак — тем острее наитье.Блажен карандаш, если дурень — в подпитье.Кто контур не видит — не может его рисовать,Ни рафаэлить, ни фюзелить, ни блейковать.За контурный метод вы рады художника съесть,Но контуры видит безумец и пишет как есть.
"Why was Cupid a boy..."
"Why was Cupid a boy..."
Why was Cupid a boy,And why a boy was he?He should have been a girl,For aught that I can see.
For he shoots with his bow,And the girl shoots with her eye,And they both are merry and glad,And laugh when we do cry.
And to make Cupid a boyWas the Cupid girl's mocking plan;For a boy can't interpret the thingTill he is become a man.
And then he's so pierc'd with cares,And wounded with arrowy smarts,That the whole business of his lifeIs to pick out the heads of the darts.
'Twas the Greeks' love of warTurn'd Love into a boy,And woman into a statue of stone—And away fled every joy.
Купидон.
Перевод В. Потаповой
Зачем ты создан, КупидонС мальчишескою статью?Тебе бы девочкою быть,По моему понятью!
Ты поражаешь цель стрелой,А девочка — глазами,И оба счастливы, когдаЗальемся мы слезами.
В затее — мальчиком тебяСоздать, узнал я женщин руку:Лишь возмужав, постигнешь тыГлумленья сложную науку.
Но до тех пор — несчетных стрелВ тебя вопьются жальца,А их выдергивать из ранВсю жизнь — удел страдальца.
Любви придав мужскую стать,Из камня женский пол ваятьВойнолюбивый вздумал грек —И радость унесло навек.
"I asked my dear friend Orator Prig..."
"I asked my dear friend Orator Prig..."
I asked my dear friend Orator Prig:'What's the first part of oratory?' He said: 'A great wig.''And what is the second?' Then, dancing a jigAnd bowing profoundly, he said: 'A great wig.''And what is the third?' Then he snored like a pig,And, puffing his cheeks out, replied: 'A great wig.'So if a great panter with questions you push,'What's the first part of panting?' he'll say 'A pant-brush.''And what is the second?' with most modest blush,He'll smile like a cherub, and say: 'A pant-brush.''And what is the third?' he'll bow like a rush,With a leer in his eye, he'll reply: 'A pant-brush.'Perhaps this is all a panter can want:But, look yonder — that house is the house of Rembrandt!
«— Что оратору нужно?..»
Перевод С. Маршака
— Что оратору нужно? Хороший язык?— Нет, — ответил оратор. — Хороший парик!— А еще? — Не смутился почтенный старикИ ответил: — Опять же хороший парик.— А еще? — Он задумался только на мигИ воскликнул: — Конечно, хороший парик!— Что, маэстро, важнее всего в портретисте?Он ответил: — Особые качества кисти.— А еще? — Он, палитру старательно чистя,Повторил: — Разумеется, качество кисти.— А еще? — Становясь понемногу речистей,Он воскликнул: — Высокое качество кисти!
"Having given great offence by writing in prose..."
"Having given great offence by writing in prose..."
Having given great offence by writing in prose,I'll write in verse as soft as Bartoloze.Some blush at what others can see no crime in;But nobody sees any harm in riming.Dryden, in rime, cries 'Milton only plann'd':Every fool shook his bells throughout the land.Tom Cooke cut Hogarth down with his clean graving:Thousands of connoisseurs with joy ran raving.Thus, Hayley on his toilette seeing the soap,Cries, 'Homer is very much improv'd by Pope.'Some say I've given great provision to my foes,And that now I lead my false friends by the nose.Flaxman and Stothard, smelling a sweet savour,Cry 'Blakified drawing spoils painter and engraver';While I, looking up to my umbrella,Resolv'd to be a very contrary fellow,Cry, looking quite from skumference to centre:'No one can finish so high as the original Inventor.'Thus poor Schiavonetti died of the Cromek—A thing that's tied around the Examiner's neckThis is my sweet apology to my friends,That I may put them in mind of their latter ends.If men will act like a maid smiling over a churn,They ought not, when it comes to another's turn,To grow sour at what a friend may utter,Knowing and feeling that we all have need of butter.False friends, fie! fie! Our friendship you shan't sever;In spite we will be greater friends than ever.