| Off an ancient story Ile tell you anon, Of a notable prince that was called King Iohn, In England was borne, with maine and with might; Hee did much wrong and mainteined litle right. |
Povestea veche ce veţi asculta E despre John, crai mare-n vremea sa, Născut englez, tronând ca un satrap; În toate celea şi-a făcut de cap. |
Over a pleasant evening meal, Bill, John, and Doug were discussing going to the gym and the various effects of working out.
Doug said that it was possible to get „pectoral inserts” for the „reasonable” cost of $6000.
Bill snickered, looked completely aghast and commented, „For $6000 you could get a personal trainer and get the same result without surgery.”
John replied, „For $6000 you could get a woman who doesn’t care what you look like.”
| Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can’t move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? |
Pentru ce-arăţi stins şi pal, Prost ibovnic, zi? Speri că numai în ăst hal Poţi a o-mblânzi? Pal de ce-arăţi, zi? |
| Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can’t win her, Saying nothing do ‘t? Prithee, why so mute? |
June pătimaş ce eşti? Ce stai trist şi mut? Speri tăcând s-o-ademeneşti? Altfel n-ai putut? Zi, de ce stai mult? |
| Quit, quit for shame! This will not move; This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her! |
Schimbă foaia! că n-ai spor, N-o-ndupleci aşa; Nu-i chip s-o îmbii spre-amor Dacă nu vrea ea; Naiba să o ia! |
| John Suckling | traducere de Tudor Dorin |
| John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London town. |
Era John Gilpin de ispravă Al Londrei cetăţean Şi cunoscut în Cheapside, başca De poteri căpitan. |
| What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, The labor of an age in pilèd stones, Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid? Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame, What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument. For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring art, Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. |
Îi vom slăvi lui Shakespeare osul sfânt, Clădindu-i vraf de pietre pe mormânt? Sau cere-se ca moaştele-i să stea Sub piramida care-mpunge-n stea? Moştenitor al faimei, te îmbie Asemenea plăpândă mărturie? Mirarea şi uimirea-ne nu-s oare Statuia ta mereu dăinuitoare? În ciuda artei cea cu trudnic pas Curg stihurile tale, şi popas În inimi face delficul tău vers Din cartea ta cu slova de neşters. Lăsându-ne de fantezie goi, Ne faci de marmur’ stane tu pe noi; Şi-astfel, atât ţi-e cripta de măreaţă, Încât şi regi o ar plăti cu-o viaţă. |
| John Milton | traducere de Tudor Dorin |
| Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so; For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery. Thou’art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy’or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. |
Să nu te-ngâmfi tu, Moarte, căci nu eşti Mult vajnică şi rea precât se spune; Iar toţi acei ce crezi că-i vei răpune Nu mor; nici viaţa n-ai să mi-o răpeşti. Ca Somnu-arăţi, ca Tihna – deci mai bune Desfătări s-ar cădea să izvodeşti; Pe cei mai vrednici inşi curând momeşti În tihna-ţi duh şi oase spre-a-şi depune! Slujeşti al soartei zar, pe laşi, pe regi, Te-ncuibi în boli, otrăvuri şi-n război; Ci mac sau vrăji la fel ne-adorm pe noi Ca ghiontul tău… De ce fălite-ai deci? Scurt somnul ni-i, mereu trezi fi-vom, şi Pieri-va Moartea: Moarte, vei muri! |
| John Donne | traducere de Tudor Dorin |
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