Сонет 91.
Кто ищет счастья в чистом роде,
Кто в силе тела и меча,
Кто чувствует в сладчайшем звоне
Бокалов алого вина.
И каждый видит наслажденье
В судьбе закованных вещей
А я ищу души прощенье
В любви и радости твоей.
Ни отблеск серебра, ни шпага,
Ни сладость пряного хмеля
Не стоят искреннего взгляда
И вместе встреченного дня.
Я не боюсь дыханья смерти.
Лишь мысли потерять тебя.
* * *
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force,
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
But these particulars are not my measure;
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away and me most wretched make.