De dragul meu daca-mi primesti iubirea
si-o cheltui, nu te voi fi blestemat
si totusi te blestem de-i iai sclipirea
fara sa ti-o doresti cu-adevarat.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
Fragment:
“LXXXII
N-ai fost perechea muzei mele, asa e,
si lesne poti sa-i Intelegi pe scribii
ce binecuvanteaza in vreo foaie
pe cei iubiti, cu scula diatribii.
La fel esti de frumos la trup si cuget
si te inalti mai sus decat te laud
si-nvesnicit te-ai vrea cu altul, sunet,
in noua stampa chipul sa ti-l caut.
Sa nu faci altfel! Cand va fi sa sune
retoricile noii osanale sa stii ca mintea mea te recompune
cu adevarul harurilor tale...
Te ocoleasca doar scorniri stangace
ce n-au cu tineretea ta a face...
I grant thou wert not married to my muse,
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
And therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some fresher stamp of these time-bettering days.
And do so, love; yet when they have devised
What straind touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathized
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
And their gross painting might be better used
Where cheeks need blood: in thee it is abused.
LXXXIII
Nu i-am scornit obrazului tau dresuri,
n-acopar frumusetea sub vopsea.
Credeam ca ai destule intelesuri
pentru poeticeasca truda-a mea.
Iar muza de mi-a atipit oleaca
a fost ca tu mai bine sa-ntelegi
cat poate-o pana de acum, saraca,
s-aduca spor simtirii tale-ntregi.
Tacerea mi-o acuzi, dar e mai bine
o glorie de mut imprumutand,
astfel nu tulbur farmece divine
ca altii sadind viata pe mormant.
Mai multa viata intr-un ochi pastrezi
decat in versul alor tai aezi!
I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set.
I found — or thought I found — you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt;
And therefore have I slept in your report:
That you yourself, being extant, well might show
How far a modem quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
For I impair not beauty, being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise. “
Sonete. Sonnets - Shakespeare
