Читать книгу Don Quixote онлайн

128 страница из 316

In thraldom to the ancient tyrant Love.

I'll say that she who is mine enemy

In that fair body hath as fair a mind,

And that her coldness is but my desert,

And that by virtue of the pain he sends

Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway.

Thus, self-deluding, and in bondage sore,

And wearing out the wretched shred of life

To which I am reduced by her disdain,

I'll give this soul and body to the winds,

All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store.

Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause

That makes me quit the weary life I loathe,

As by this wounded bosom thou canst see

How willingly thy victim I become,

Let not my death, if haply worth a tear,

Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes;

I would not have thee expiate in aught

The crime of having made my heart thy prey;

But rather let thy laughter gaily ring

And prove my death to be thy festival.

Fool that I am to bid thee! well I know

Thy glory gains by my untimely end.

And now it is the time; from Hell's abyss

Come thirsting Tantalus, come Sisyphus