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Çàðàç íà ñàéò³ - 1
Ïîøóê

Ïåðåâ³ðêà ðîçì³ðó




Nicholas Grimald

Ïðî÷èòàíèé : 182


Òâîð÷³ñòü | Á³îãðàô³ÿ | Êðèòèêà

The Garden

The  issue  of  great  Jove,  draw  near,  you  Muses  nine!  
Help  us  to  praise  the  blissful  plot  of  garden  ground  so  fine.  
The  garden  gives  good  food  and  aid  for  leech's  cure;    
The  garden,  full  of  great  delight,  his  master  doth  allure.  
Sweet  sallet  herbs  be  here,  and  herbs  of  every  kind;  
The  ruddy  grapes,  the  seemly  fruits,  be  here  at  hand  to  find.  
Here  pleasance  wanteth  not  to  make  a  man  full  fain;  
Here  marvelous  the  mixture  is  of  solace  and  of  gain.  
To  water  sundry  seeds,  the  furrow  by  the  way  
A  running  river,  trilling  down  with  liquor,  can  convey.  
Behold,  with  lively  hue  fair  flow'rs  that  shine  so  bright;  
With  riches,  like  the  orient  gems,  they  paint  the  mould  in  sight.  
Bees,  humming  with  soft  sound  (their  murmur  is  so  small),  
Of  blooms  and  blossoms  suck  the  tops;  on  dewed  leaves  they  fall.  
The  creeping  vine  holds  down  her  own  bewedded  elms,  
And,  wandering  out  with  branches  thick,  reeds  folded  overwhelms.  
Trees  spread  their  coverts  wide  with  shadows  fresh  and  gay;  
Full  well  their  branched  bows  defend  the  fervent  sun  away.  
Birds  chatter,  and  some  chirp,  and  some  sweet  tunes  do  yield;  
All  mirthful,  with  their  songs  so  blithe,  they  make  both  air  and  field.  
The  garden  it  allures,  it  feeds,  it  glads  the  sprite;  
From  heavy  hearts  all  doleful  dumps  the  garden  chaseth  quite.  
Strength  it  restores  to  limbs,  draws  and  fulfills  the  sight;  
with  cheer  revives  the  senses  all  and  maketh  labour  light.  
O,  what  deights  to  us  the  garden  ground  doth  bring!  
Seed,  leaf,  flow'r,  fruit,  herb,  bee,  and  tree,  and  more  than  I  may  sing!  

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