Geoffrey Chaucer (Джеффри Чосер)

Virelay

Alone walking
In thought plaining,
And sore sighing;
All desolate,
Me rememb'ring
Of my living;
My death wishing
Both early and late.

Infortunate
Is so my fate,
That, wot ye what?
Out of measure
My life I hate;
Thus desperate,
In such poor estate,
Do I endure.

Of other cure
Am I not sure;
Thus to endure
Is hard, certain;
Such is my ure,
I you ensure;
What creature
May have more pain?

My truth so plain
Is taken in vain,
And great disdain
In remembrance;
Yet I full fain
Would me complain,
Me to abstain
From this penance.

But, in substance,
None alleggeance
Of my grievance
Can I not find;
Right so my chance,
With displeasance,
Doth me advance;
And thus an end. 

1. Gentilesse
2. Chaucer's Words to His Scrivener
3. Anelida and Arcite
4. Chaucer's Prophecy
5. Roundel

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1977

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