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Desire^
06-27-2006, 17:07
Някой,който е добър в английския да го преведе плс :)




To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

flam`f
06-27-2006, 17:09
Тва е Хамлет на Шекспир има го преведен на 7128930 места!! :-s

Desire^
06-27-2006, 17:22
bravoooo ;) dobre che mi kaza koe e :o :o :o
aide sq dai link kato go ima prevedno na 395`9026 mesta :lol:

I`LoVe`My`BiTcH
07-14-2006, 13:17
Web Trance 2 free :-D Ще ти свърши идеална работа :wink:

impress
07-17-2006, 14:05
ето част

Да бъдеш или не? Туй е въпросът.
Дали е по достойно да понасяш дъжд от камъни и от стрели на злобната съдба, или възстанал със меч в ръка срещу море от мъки, до сложиш край на всички тях: умираш, заспиваш ... нищо друго ... тъй във сън да се стопят и бремето душевно, и хиляди душевни болки, присъщи на плътта. Такъв завършек би трябвало да бъде блян за всеки: заспиваш, спиш ... сънуваш може би? Да тук е пречката! Защото туй - какви ли сънища ще ни споходят в съня безкрай, когато се измъкнем от бренната черупка? - то ни спира; таз мисъл прави жизнения гнет тъй дълголетен. Кой търпял би безбройните камшици и обиди на времето: откритата неправда на силния, съдийския бавеж, надменността на ранга, произвола на всеки, който е получил власт, отритната обич, злия присмех, с който некадърниците плащат на тихата заслуга - всичко туй! - когато едно бодване тук, вляво очиства сметките ни? Кой би млъкнал с пот и стон товара на живота, ако не беше този страх пред нещо зад гроба, в неоткритата страна отдето никои пътник се не връща - той смазва волята ни и ни кара да се мирим с известните беди, наместо да летим към неизвестни! Тъй размисълът прави ни пъзливци и пуменият цвят на дързостта ни повяхва под отровното белило на многото мъдруване. И ето мечти високи почини с размах на нейде кривват и така си гаснат, не станали дела ...


Маняк, Валери Петров си го е превел ;) библиотека няма ли в твоя град...