Текст оригинала на английском языке
A Sonnet Peace my hearts blab, be ever dumb, Sorrowes speak loud without a tongue: And my perplexed thoughts forbear To breath your selves in any ear: Tis scarce a true or manly grief Which gaddes abroad to find relief. Was ever stomack that lackt meat Nourisht by what another eat? Can I bestow it, or will woe Forsake me when I bid it goe? Then Ile believe a wounded breast May heal by shrift, and purchase rest. But if imparting it I do Not ease my self, but trouble two, 'Tis better I alone possess My treasure of unhappiness: Engrossing that which is my own No longer then it is unknown. If silence be a kind of death, He kindles grief who gives it breath; But let it rak't in embers lye, On thine own hearth 'twill quickly dye; And spight of fate, that very wombe Which carries it, shall prove its tombe.
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