Александр Бром (Alexander Brome)

Текст оригинала на английском языке

The Riddle

  Written in 1644.


NO more, no more,
We are already pin'd;
And sore, and poor,
In body and in mind:
And yet our sufferings have been
Less then our sin.
Come long-desired peace we thee implore,
And let our pains be less, or power more.


Lament, Lament,
And let thy tears, run down,
To see the rent
Between the Robe and Crown;
Yet both do strive to make it more
Then 'twas before:
War like a serpent has its head got in,
And will not end so soon as't did begin.


One body Jars,
And with its self does fight;
War meets with wars,
And might resisteth might;
And both sides say they love the King,
And peace will bring:
Yet since these fatal civil broyles begun,
Strange Riddle! both have conquer'd, neither won.


One God, one King,
One true Religion still;
In every thing
One Law both should fulfil;
All these both sides does still pretend
That they defend:
Yet to encrease the King and Kingdoms woes,
Which side soever wins, good subjects lose.


The King doth swear,
That he doth fight for them;
And they declare,
They do the like for him:
Both say they wish and fight for peace,
Yet wars increase:
So between both, before our wars be gone,
Our lives and goods are lost, and we're undone.


Since 'tis our curse,
To fight we know not why▪
'Tis worse and worse
The longer thus we lye:
For war it self is but a Nurse
To make us worse.
Come blessed peace, we once again implore,
And let our pains be less, or power more.

Поддержать сайт

Английская поэзия - http://eng-poetry.ru/. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru