Kochanowski, Jan Lament XVI http://www.wolnelektury.pl/lektura/laments http://wolnelektury.pl/katalog/lektura/treny-tren-xvi Prall, Dorothea Kozioł, Paweł Niedziałkowska, Marta Fundacja Nowoczesna Polska Renesans Liryka Tren Publikacja zrealizowana w ramach projektu Wolne Lektury (http://wolnelektury.pl). Reprodukcja cyfrowa wykonana przez Bibliotekę Narodową z egzemplarza pochodzącego ze zbiorów BN. Dofinansowano ze środków Ministra Kultury i Dziedzictwa Narodowego. http://wolnelektury.pl/katalog/lektura/laments-lament-xvi http://polona.pl/item/333575/1/ Jan Kochanowski, Laments, University of California Press, Berkeley 1920 Domena publiczna - Dorothea Prall xml text text 2014-11-18 enghttp://redakcja.wolnelektury.pl/media/cover/image/2438664753_d0bf97b739_o.jpg Perfect Gold, Rik Hermans, CC BY 2.0 http://redakcja.wolnelektury.pl/cover/image/3803 Jan Kochanowski Laments Lament XVI Misfortune hath constrainèd me/ To leave the lute and poetry,/ Nor can I from their easing borrow/ Sleep for my sorrow. Do I see true, or hath a dream/ Flown forth from ivory gates to gleam/ In phantom gold, before forsaking/ Its poor cheat, waking? Oh, mad, mistaken humankind,/ 'Tis easy triumph for the mind/ While yet no ill adventure strikes us/ And naught mislikes us. In plenty we praise poverty,/ 'Mid pleasures we hold grief to be/ (And even death, ere it shall stifle/ Our breath) a trifle. But when the grudging spinner scants/ Her thread and fate no surcease grants/ From grief most deep and need most wearing,/ Less calm our bearing. Ah, TullyTully --- Marcus Tullius Cicero (106 BC--43 BC), Roman politician, philosopher, renowned orator and writer., thou didst flee from Rome/ With weeping, who didst say his home/ The wise man found in any station,/ In any nation. And why dost mourn thy daughter so/ When thou hast said the only woe/ That man need dread is base dishonor ? ---/ Why sorrow on her? Death, thou hast said, can terrify/ The godless man alone. Then why/ So loth, the pay for boldness giving,/ To leave off living? Thy words, that have persuaded men,/ Persuade not thee, angelic pen;/ Disaster findeth thy defenses,/ Like mine, pretenses. Soft stone is man: he takes the lines/ That Fortune's cutting tool designs./ To press the wounds wherewith she graves us,/ Racks us or saves us? Time, father of forgetfulness/ So longed for now in my distress,/ Since wisdom nor the saints can steel me,/ Oh, do thou heal me!