Macbeth

ACT V

SCENE VII. Dunsinane. Before the castle. Alarums.

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Enter Macduff.

M a c d u f f That way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy face!

If thou be’st slain and with no stroke of mine,

My wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me still.

I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms

Are hired to bear their staves. Either thou, Macbeth,

Or else my sword, with an unbatter’d edge,

I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be;

By this great clatter, one of greatest note

Seems bruited. Let me find him, Fortune!

And more I beg not.

Exit. Alarums.

Enter Malcolm and old Siward.

S i w a r d This way, my lord; the castle’s gently render'd.

The tyrant’s people on both sides do fight,

The noble Thanes do bravely in the war,

The day almost itself professes yours,

And little is to do.

M a l c o l m We have met with foes

That strike beside us.

S i w a r d Enter, sir, the castle.

Exeunt. Alarum.

SCENE VIII. Another part of the field.

Enter Macbeth.

M a c b e t h Why should I play the Roman fool and die

On mine own sword? Whiles I see lives, the gashes

Do better upon them.

Enter Macduff.

M a c d u f f Turn, hell hound, turn!

M a c b e t h Of all men else I have avoided thee.

But get thee back, my soul is too much charged

With blood of thine already.

M a c d u f f I have no words.

My voice is in my sword, thou bloodier villain

Than terms can give thee out!

They fight.

M a c b e t h Thou losest labor.

As easy may’st thou the intrenchant air

With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed.

Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests;

I bear a charmed life, which must not yield

To one of woman born.

M a c d u f f Despair thy charm,

And let the angel whom thou still hast served

Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb

Untimely ripp’d.

M a c b e t h Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,

For it hath cow’d my better part of man!

And be these juggling fiends no more believed

That patter with us in a double sense,

That keep the word of promise to our ear

And break it to our hope. I’ll not fight with thee.

M a c d u f f Then yield thee, coward,

And live to be the show and gaze o’ the time.

We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,

Painted upon a pole, and underwrit,

“Here may you see the tyrant.”

M a c b e t h I will not yield,

To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet,

And to be baited with the rabble’s curse.

Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane,

And thou opposed, being of no woman born,

Yet I will try the last. Before my body

I throw my warlike shield! Lay on, Macduff,

And damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”

Exeunt fighting.

Тема 3. Поэзия Джона Донна и бена джонсона

Горбунов А. Н. Джон Донн и английская поэзия XVI–XVII веков. М., 1993. С. 86–137.

Березкина В. И. Язык концептов: «Экстаз» Донна // Языковая норма и вариативность. Днепропетровск, 1981. С. 32–38.

Захаров В. В. О некоторых особенностях «трудного» стиля Джона Донна // Анализ стилей зарубежной художественной и научной литературы. Вып. 3. Л., 1982. С. 107–115.

Материалы в журнале «Литературное обозрение» (1997. №5).

Рогов Б. Поэт Бен Джонсон // Театр. 1973. №7. С.143–145.

JOHN DONNE (1572–1631)

The Ecstasy

Where, like a pillow on a bed,

A pregnant bank swelled up to rest

The violet’s reclining head,

Sat we two, one another’s best.

Our hands were firmly cemented

With a fast balm which thence did spring,

Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread

Our eyes upon one double string;

So to intergraft our hands, as yet

Was all our means to make us one,

And pictures in our eyes to get

Was all our propagation.

As ‘twixt two equal armies Fate

Suspends uncertain victory,

Our souls (which to advance their state

Were gone out) hung ‘twixt her and me;

And whilst our souls negotiate there,

We like sepulchral statues lay;

All day the same our postures were,

And we said nothing all the day.

If any, so by love refined

That he soul’s language understood,

And by good love were grown all mind,

Within convenient distance stood,

He (though he knew not which soul spake,

Because both meant, both spake the same)

Might thence a new concoction take,

And part far purer than he came.

This ecstasy doth unperplex,

We said, and tell us what we love;

We see by this it was not sex;

We see we saw not what did move;

But as all several souls contain

Mixture of things, they know not what,

Love these mixed souls doth mix again,

And makes both one, each this and that.

A single violet transplant,

The strength, the color, and the size

(All which before was poor and scant)

Redoubles still, and multiplies.

When love with one another so

Interinanimates two souls,

That abler soul, which thence doth flow,

Defects of loneliness controls.

We then, who are this new soul, know

Of what we are composed and made,

For, th’ atomies of which we grow

Are souls, whom no change can invade.

But O alas, so long, so far

Our bodies why do we forbear?

They are ours, though they are not we; we are

The intelligencies, they the sphere.

We owe them thanks because they thus

Did us to us at first convey,

Yielded their forces, sense, to us,

Nor are dross to us, but allay.

On man heaven’s influence works not so

But that it first imprints the air:

So soul into the soul may flow,

Though it to body first repair.

As our blood labors to beget

Spirits as like souls as it can,

Because such fingers need to knit

That subtle knot which makes us man,

So must pure lovers’ souls descend

T’ affection, and to faculties

Which sense may reach and apprehend;

Else a great Prince in prison lies.

To our bodies turn we then, that so

Weak men on love revealed may look;

Love’s mysteries in souls do grow,

But yet the body is his book.

And if some lover, such as we,

Have heard this dialogue of one,

Let him still mark us; he shall see

Small change when we are to bodies gone.

The Apparition

When by thy scorn, O murd’ress, I am dead

And that thou think’st thee free

From all solicitation from me,

Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,

And thee, feign’d vestal, in worse arms shall see;

Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,

And he, whose thou art then, being tir’d before,

Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think

    Thou call’st for more,

And in false sleep will from thee shrink;

And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou

Bath’d in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie

    A verier ghost than I.

What I will say, I will not tell thee now,

Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent,

I’had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,

Than by my threat’nings rest still innocent.

BEN JONSON (1572–1637)

Vivamus (Song to Celia from “Volpone”)

Come, my Celia, let us prove,

While we can, the sports of love;

Time will not be ours, for ever,

He at length, our good will sever.

Spend not then his gifts in vain;

Suns that set may rise again:

But if once we lose this light,

‘Tis with us perpetual night.

Why should we defer our joys?

Fame and rumours are but toys.

Cannot we delude the eyes

Of a few poor household spies?

Or his easier eyes beguile,

So removed by our wile?

‘Tis no sin, Love’s fruit to steal,

But the sweet theft to reveal:

To be taken, to be seen,

These have crimes accounted been.

An Elegy

Though beauty be the mark of praise,    And yours of whom I sing, be such,    As not the world can praise too much,Yet ‘tis your virtue now I raise.

A virtue, like allay, so gone    Throughout your form; as though that move,    And draw, and conquer all men’s love,This subjects you to love of one;

Wherein you triumph yet; because    ‘Tis of yourself, and that you use    The noblest freedom, not to chooseAgainst or faith, or honour’s laws.

But who should less expect from you,    In whom alone Love lives agen?    By whom he is restored to men; And kept, and bred, and brought up true?

His falling temples you have rear’d,    The wither’d garlands ta’en away;    His altars kept from the decayThat Envy wished, and Nature feared:

And on them burn so chaste a flame,    With so much loyalty’s expense,    As Love t’ acquit such excellence,Is gone himself into your name.

And you are he:  the deity    To whom all lovers are design’d,    That would their better objects find; Among which faithful troop am I.

Who, as an offering at your shrine,    Have sung this hymn, and here entreat    One spark of your diviner heatTo light upon a love of mine.

Which, if it kindle not, but scant    Appear, and that to shortest view,    Yet give me leave t’ adore in youWhat I, in her am grieved to want.