Songs

Izmuchas' vsem, ja umeret' khochu.
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
Toska smotret', kak majetsja bednjak
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
I kak, shutja, zhivjotsja bogachu,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
I doverjat', i popadat' vprosak;
And purest faith unhappilly forsworn,
I nabljudat', kak naglost' lezet v svet,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
I chest' devich'ja katitsja ko dnu.
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted
I znat', chto khodu sovershenstvam net,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
I videt' moshch' u nemoshchi v plenu,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
I vspominat', chto mysli zamknut rot,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
I razum snosit gluposti khulu,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
I prjamodush'e prostotoj slyvjot,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
I dobrota prisluzhivajet zlu.
And captive good attending captain ill:
Izmuchas' vsem, ne stal by zhit' i dnja,
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Da drugu budet trudno bez menja.
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.