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ШЕКСПИР. СОНЕТ LXXXIV
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Доволен ли восторженный пиит?
Нет равного светилу моему.
Ни в свете глаз, ни в рдение ланит
Сравниться не пристало никому
С моим кумиром. Скудное перо,
Бессильно на победу уповая,
Останется в тени Его щедрот
И славы удостоится едва ли.
Все, чем природой щедро одарен,
О чем душа, как при смерти молила, –
Все совершенство далей и времен –
В одном Тебе на миг остановилось!
Не мне хвалить мой свет и божество –
Я не могу прибавить ничего.
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Who is it that says most? which can say more
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.
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