加载中…【本·瓊森《紀念吾摯愛作家威廉·莎士比亞先生及其留世之作》新譯】
(2022-05-27 12:37:51)
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翻譯情感文化藝術教育 |
分类： Poetry詩歌 |
To draw no envy,
SHAKESPEARE, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to
thy book and fame ;
While I confess thy
writings to be such,
As neither Man nor
Muse can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage.
But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy
praise ;
For seeliest ignorance on these may
light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but
echoes right ;
Or
blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and
urgeth all by chance ;
Or crafty malice might
pretend this praise,
And think to ruin where it
seemed to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron ; what
could hurt her more ?
But thou art proof against
them, and, indeed,
Above the ill fortune of
them, or the need.
I therefore will
begin:
The applause ! delight
!
My SHAKSPEARE
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont
lie
A little further, to make thee a room
:
Thou art a monument without a
tomb,
And art alive still while thy book doth
live
And we have wits to read, and praise to
give.
That I not mix thee so my brain
excuses,
I mean with great, but disproportioned
Muses :
For if I thought my judgment were of
years,
I should commit thee surely with thy
peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's
mighty line.
And
though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I would not
seek
For names : but call forth thund'ring
Aeschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to
us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of
Cordova dead,
To life again, to hear thy
buskin tread
And shake a stage : or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the
comparison
Of all that insolent Greece
or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from
their ashes come.
To whom all Scenes of Europe homage owe.
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm !
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines !
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all ; thy art,
My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion : and, that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same,
And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ;
Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn ;
For a good poet's made, as well as born.
And such wert thou ! Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue, even so the race
Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well torned and true filed lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandisht at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it
were
To see thee in our waters yet
appear,
And make those flights upon
the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza, and
our James !
But stay, I see thee in the
hemisphere
Advanced, and made a
constellation there !
Shine forth, thou Star of
Poets, and with rage
Or influence, chide or cheer
the drooping stage,
Which, since thy flight from
hence, hath mourned like night,
And despairs day, but for thy
volume's light.
漢譯：TR.BY
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