Queen Anne Boleyn - Topic: Poezja Wyatta http://www.anne-boleyn.com/page_id196/anglia-za-panowania-tudorow/poezja-wyatta/ Simple:Press Version 4.3.4 Sylwia on Poezja Wyatta http://www.anne-boleyn.com/page_id196/anglia-za-panowania-tudorow/poezja-wyatta/#p1071 Anglia za panowania Tudorów http://www.anne-boleyn.com/page_id196/anglia-za-panowania-tudorow/poezja-wyatta/#p1071 Czy ktoś z Was ma może w posiadaniu tomik poezji Tomasza Wyatta w wydaniu polskim? Robię artykuł o Tomaszu i Annie, i cytuję kilka jego wierszy, ale bardzo mało ich jest przetłumaczonych na polski, a chciałabym cytować po polsku nie po angielsku.

Chodzi mi o te wiersze ;

 

Sometime  I fled the fire, that me so
          brent,
  By sea, by land, by water, and by wind ;
And now the coals I follow that be quent,
From Dover to Calais, with willing mind.
Lo! how desire is both forth sprung, and spent!
And he may see, that whilom was so blind,
    And all his labour laughs he now to scorn,
    Meashed in the briers, that erst was only torn
……
Innocentia Veritas Viat Fides Circumdederunt me inimici mei
Who list his wealth and ease retain,
Himself let him unknown contain.
Press not too fast in at that gate
Where the return stands by disdain,
For sure, circa Regna tonat.
The high mountains are blasted oft
When the low valley is mild and soft.
Fortune with Health stands at debate.
The fall is grievous from aloft.
And sure, circa Regna tonat.
These bloody days have broken my heart.
My lust, my youth did them depart,
And blind desire of estate.
Who hastes to climb seeks to revert.
Of truth, circa Regna tonat.
The Bell Tower showed me such sight
That in my head sticks day and night.
There did I learn out of a grate,
For all favour, glory, or might,
That yet circa Regna tonat.
By proof, I say, there did I learn:
Wit helpeth not defence too yerne,
Of innocency to plead or prate.
Bear low, therefore, give God the stern,
For sure, circa Regna tonat
Z tego wiersza mam po polsku fragment o krawawych dniach, ale całego wiersza nie mam.
……….

 

'Ye Olde Mule'
Ye old mule that think yourself so fair, 
Leave off with craft your beauty to repair, 
For it is true, without any fable, 
No man setteth more by riding in your saddle. 
Too much travail so do your train appair. 
Ye old mule 
With false savour though you deceive th'air, 
Whoso taste you shall well perceive your lair 
Savoureth somewhat of a Kappurs stable. 
Ye old mule 
Ye must now serve to market and to fair, 
All for the burden, for panniers a pair. 
For since gray hairs been powdered in your sable, 
The thing ye seek for, you must yourself enable 
To purchase it by payment and by prayer, 
Ye old mule.

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