All my past life is mine no more... (john_wilmot) wrote,
All my past life is mine no more...

Вероятнее всего стихотворение написано как ответ на "An Essay upon satyr, в котором Малгрев и, как полагал граф Рочестер, при активном участии Джона Драйдена, находившегося в данный момент под покровительством Малгрева.

1679 год.

An Epistolary Essay from M.G. to O.B. upon Their Mutual Poems.

Dear friend,
I hear this town does so abound
With saucy censurers, that faults are found
With what of late we, in poetic rage
Bestowing, threw away on the dull age.
But howsoe'er envy their spleen may raise
To rob my brow of the deserved bays,
Their thanks at least I merit, since through me
They are partakers of your poetry.
And this is all I'll say in my defence:
T'obtain one line of your well-worded sense,
I'd be content t'have writ the British Prince.
I'm none of those who think themselves inspired,
Nor write with the vain hopes to be admired,
But from a rule I have upon long trial:
T'avoid with care all sort of self-denial.
Which way soe'er desire and fancy lead,
Contemning fame, that path I boldly tread.
And if, exposing what I take for wit,
To my dear self a pleasure I beget,
No matter though the censuring critic fret.
Those whom my muse displeases are at strife
With equal spleen against my course of life,
The least delight of which I'd not forgo
For all the flattering prise man can bestow.
If I designed to please, the way were then
To mend my manners rather than my pen.
The first's unnatural, therefore unfit,
And for the second, I despair of it,
Since grace is not so hard to get as wit.
Perhaps ill verses ought to be confined
In mere good breeding, like unsavory wind.
Were reading forced, I should be apt to think
Men might no more write scurvily than stink.
But 'tis your choice whether you'll read or no;
If likewise of your smelling it were so,
I'd fart, just as I write better than I do,
But I have as much need write as you.
What though the excrement of my dull brain
Runs in a costive and insipid strain,
Whilst your rich head eases itself of wit:
Must none but civet cays have leave of shit?
I all I write, should sense and wit and rhyme
Fail me at once, yet something so sublime
Shall stamp my poem, that the word may see
It could have been produced by none but me.
And that's my end, for man can wish before.
But why am I no poet of the times?
I have allusions, similes, and rhymes,
And wit - or else 'tis hard that I alone
Of the whole race of mankind should have none.
Unequally the partial hand of heaven
Has all but this one only blessing given.
The world appears like a large family
Whose lord, oppressed with pride and poverty,
That to a few great plenty he may show,
Is fain to starve the numerous train below:
Just o seems Providence, as poor and vain,
Keeping more creatures than it can maintain;
Here 'tis profuse, and there it meanly saves,
And for one prince it makes ten thousand slaves.
In wit alone 't has been munificent,
Of which so just a share to each is sent
That the most avaricious is content:
Who ever thought - the due division's such -
His own too little, or find great want of wit,
Writing themselves, or judging what is writ.
But I, who am of sprightly vigor full,
Look on mankind as envious and dull.
Born to myself, myself I like alone
And must conclude my judgment good, or none.
For should my sense be nought, how could I know
Whether to merit due, or arrogance
"Oh! but the world will take offense thereby."
Why then, the world will suffer for 't, not I.

Did e'er this saucy world and I agree
To let it have its beastly will of me?
Why should my prostituted sense be drawn
To every rule their musty customs spawn?
"But men will censure you". 'Tis ten to one
Whene'er they censure, they'll be in the wrong.
There's not a thing on earth that I can name
So foolish and so false as common fame.
It calls the courtier knave, the plain man rude,
Haughty the grave, and the delightful lewd,
Impertinent the brisk, morose the sad,
Mean the familiar, the reserved one mad.
Poor helpless woman is not favored more:
She's sly hypocrite, or public whore.
Then who the devil would give this to be free
From th' innocent reproach of infamy?
These things considered make me, in despite
Of idle rumor, keep at home and write.

Поэтический перевод Яны Галиной his_earlship

Epistle to O.B. Fragment.
Рожденный для себя, себе я нравлюсь сам,
Мой приговор не подлежит сомненью.
Моих стихов " необщим выраженьем"
Низвергнут в бездну - стану ближе к небесам.
Смиренен в блеске, иль высокомерен -
Я знаю, что толпа меня осудит.
И - навсегда себе останусь верен.
Мне будет жаль. Но - больно мне не будет.
"О! Ведь - весь мир тобою оскорблен."
Я не страдаю. Пусть страдает Он.


  • (no subject)

    Сказать по правде, я не знаю заслуживает ли английская литература поэзии Джона Уилмота. То ли дело Шекспир! Вот - достойный образец. Его не стыдно…

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