Sê sonetên William Shakespeare û helbesteke George Gordon Byron
George Gordon Byron
So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe
And love itself have rest.
Trough the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a roving
By the night of the moon
Emê êdî negerin
Haqa dereng nîvê şevê,
Menî huba kêm nîne
Yan jî şevêd bê hîveron.
Bona ku şûr bêy qava xwe,
Ruh jî bêy gerden dijî,
Dil jî dem-dem disekine,
Hub jî carna radiwaste.
Rast e, şev çêbûne boy evînê,
Û mixabin, sibe pir zû safî dibin
Lê em êdî nagerin,
Li van şevêd hîveron!
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah! do not, when my heart hath ‘scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come: so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune’s might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so.
Sonnet 90 in modern English
So hate me whenever it pleases you, but if you are going to, do it now – now while the world is determined to frustrate all my actions. Join with the spitefulness of Fortune, make me bow under the burden, but don’t come and bite me from behind just when I’ve got over this particular blow. Don’t be a rainy morning after a stormy night, drawing out the defeat that you’re determined to impose on me. If you’re going to go, don’t leave it to the end, when other small sorrows have done their worst but do it at the beginning so that I’ll experience the very worst misfortune first. Then other painful things that are hurting now won’t seem so bad compared with the loss of you.
Eger tê ji min biqetî – niha here,
Niha, wextê hemu cihan dijî mine,
Bibe derdê herî tel,
Nebe derdê xilasîyê!
Eger eve yazîya min,
Li piştê va min nexe.
Nebe siba baranê,
Paşî şeva tofanê.
Min bihêle, le ne li deqa kutasîyê,
Gava sist bim ji wan derda,
Niha here, ku zanibim,
Ew ji her kula girantire.
Wekî derd tunene, heye qezîya-
Bimînim bêy evîna te.
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another’s neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment’s place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.
Sonnet 131: Translation to modern English
You are as tyrannous as those women whose beauty makes them proud and cruel, even though you look as you do, because you know full well that to my loving, doting heart, you are the most beautiful and most precious jewel. Yet, to be honest, some people, on seeing you, say that your face doesn’t have the power to make one groan with love. I wouldn’t be so bold as to tell them they’re mistaken, although I tell myself they are. And to make sure of that I groan a thousand groans just thinking about your face. Coming one after another my groans testify that in my opinion your dark complexion is most beautiful. There’s nothing dark about you, except your actions, and I think that’s why this slander about your looks continues.
Tu gele kubar u zordestî,
Nola hemî jinên bedew.
Tu baş zanî, evîna min,
Te kir cewahirek boy min.
Bira bêjin dêmê qemer
Nehêjayî hizkirinê ne,-
Ez nakevime nava lecê,
Lê nav xweda razî nabim.
Bona wan xetera qebûl nekim,
Û ji xwe ra îzbat bikim,
Ez sond duxum, rûyêd qemer
Û gulîyêd reş pir bedew in.
Pirs ew nîne tu qemerî,
Tu ne reşî, kiryarên te gelek reş in.
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)
William Shakespeare – 1564-1616
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Çevêd yara min naçûrisin nola steyrka;
Mircan ji lêva sortirin;
Gerdena wê ne belekîya berfêye;
Gulîyê pora wek têlê reş têne xwar.
Gulêd Şame sor u spî,
Dêmê yarê naghîjnê;
Hulma gula hê xweştire,
Ne ku bêhna ji wê tê.
Min pir xweş tê, gava ew diaxive,
Lê dengê sazê hê şîrine;
Min nedîtîye çawa horî dimeşin,
Ew ser erdê gav dide.
Û lê dîsa, xwedê şedeye, boy min ew pir başqeye,
Û li dijî her tiştî, peyêd derew ne hewceye.