J.Kochanowski -Pieśni - Księga druga.docx

(554 KB) Pobierz


J.K..png
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Pieśni – Księga druga                                                                                                                              Pieśń    1                                                                                                                                                      Nie dbam, aby  zimne skały                                                                                                                   Po mym graniu tańcowały;                                                                                                                                                Niech mię wilcy nie słuchają,                                                                                                             Lasy za mną nie biegają!                                                                                                                                                                                                   Hanno, tobie  k`woli spiewam,                                                                                                                             Skąd jeśli twą łaskę miewam,                                                                                                                                                  Przeszedłem już Amfijona                                                                                                                       I lutnistę Arijona.                                                                                                                                                                                                    Mnie sama twarz nie uwiedzie                                                                                                                   I choć druga na plac  jedzie                                                                                                                               Z herby domów starożytnych,                                                                                                                                                Zacne plemię dziadów bitnych.                                                                                                                                                Ja chcę podobać się w mowie                                                                                                                           Nauczonej białogłowie                                                                                                                           Ty mię pochwal, moja pani,                                                                                                                              Nie dbam, choć kto inszy gani!                                                                                                                                   Cnocie zajźrzą jako żywo:                                                                                                                                         Bujne drzewo wiatrom krzywo;                                                                                                                  Ale ty chciej pomóc sama,                                                                                                                    Nie ugrozi zazdrość sama.                                                                                                                                                                         A jeśli me niskie progi                                                                                                                               Będą godne twojej nogi,                                                                                                                                    Nogi pięknej: nie potrzeba,                                                                                                                                    Dosięgę już głową nieba.                                                                                                                 Samy cię ściany wołają                                                                                                                                                   I z dobrą myślą czekają;                                                                                                  s.194                                                                                                                        Lipa, stojąc wpośród dworu,                                                                                                                                                             Wygląda cię coraz z boru.                                                                                                                                           Każ bystre konie zakładać,                                                                                                                                                  A sama się gotuj wsiadać!                                                                                                                                                           Teraz naweselsze czasy,                                                                                                                                                   Zielenią się pięknie lasy.                                                                                                                             Łąki kwitną rozmaicie,                                                                                                                                     Zająca już znać w życie;                                                                                                                                                 Przy nadziei oracz ścisły,                                                                                                                                        Że będzie miał z czym do Wisły.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Stada igrają przy wodzie,                                                                                                                                                          A sam pasterz, siedząc w chłodzie,                                                                                                                                       Gra w piszczałkę proste pieśni,                                                                                                                                                   A faunowie skaczą leśni.                                                                                                                      Kwap` się ,póki jasne zorze                                                                                                                                                                                                     Nie zapadną w bystre morze;                                                                                                                    Po chwili ćmy czarne wstaną,                                                                                                                                                                                                     Co noc noszą nienaspaną.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Pieśń   2                                                                                                                                                                                    Nie wierz Fortunie, co siedzisz wysoko;                                                                                                         Mniej na poślednie koło pilne oko:;                                                                                                             Bo to niestała pani z przyrodzenia,                                                                                                                                              Często więc rada sprawy swe odmienia.                                                                                                                        Nie dufaj w złoto i  w żadne pokłady,                                                                                                         Każdej godziny obawiaj się zdrady;                                                                                                                                      Fortuna, co da,  to zasię wziąć może,                                                                                                     A u niej żadna dawność nie pomoże.                                                                                                               A ci, co z tobą teraz przestawają,                                                                                                          Twej się Fortunie, nie tobie kłaniają;                                                                                               Skoro ta znikn...

Zgłoś jeśli naruszono regulamin