В грядущем кто доверится стихам —
Сладчайшей версии прижизненных заслуг?
Известно небу, пусть забвенью не предам, -
Не будет толку от изысканных услуг.
Ведь даже если смог бы описать
Твой взгляд, измерить грации дары,
Во лжи меня потомки обвинят:
«Земное — тень небесной красоты».
И старый пожелтевший фолиант
Презреньем одарят за правоту.
К античной песней, бреду старика,
Достоинства живые низведут.
Вот если б родилось твоё дитя,
Вдвойне б сияла правота моя!
Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, 'This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.'
So should my papers (yellowed with their age)
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage
And stretchd metre of an ntique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.