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Tired with all these, for restful death I cry: |
Mír smrti volám, tím vším unaven, |
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As to behold desert a beggar born, |
jak za zásluhy žebrotou se chodí |
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And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, |
a za nic bývá kdekdo oslaven |
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And purest faith unhappily forsworn, |
a čisté víře pokrytectví škodí |
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And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, |
a pocty leží v rukou nepravých |
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And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, |
a cudnost panen hyne zneuctěna |
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And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, |
a dokonalost budí jenom smích |
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And strength by limping sway disabled, |
a síla kulhá způli ochromena |
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And art made tongue-tied by authority, |
a múzám jazyk řežou autority |
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And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, |
a hloupost moudré drze poučuje |
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And simple truth miscalled simplicity, |
a pravda nosí jméno naivity |
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And captive good attending captain ill. |
a dobro zlému v poutech posluhuje. |
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Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, |
V takovém světě nechce se mi žít, |
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Save that to die, I leave my love alone. |
však nedokážu lásku opustit. |
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