Have mercy, sober Aristarchus
Bahicheskih my messages,
Do not blame my dreams
And a sense of poetry in windy:
Fruits of merry leisure,
Not born for immortality,
But is this the way they were preserved
For himself, for friend,
Or for young Chloe.
Have mercy, have pity on me -
I do not need your lessons.
I know my own faults.
Of course my poor genius:
For rhyme often idle,
The combination of evil laws,
Run trestopnye crowd
At Ai, hey and oh. —
Another few confessions:
I put (who is without sin?)
Blank often exclamations,
And a row of extra three verses;
Not good, but excuses
Do not lzya modestly bring?
My volatile MESSAGE
The progeny of whether blossom?
Do not think, censor my gloomy,
What am I, besnuyas at night,
Bound poetic duma,
Calm disaster victims;
What, running to all corners,
Ruffling his hair tufts,
Like Febovыm priest
Sparkling eyes of menacing,
barely breathing, frowning eyes,
And lighted his lamp,
For shatkoy chair, crunch, zasyadu,
I sit, Stay three nights in a row
And hatched - trestopny nonsense ...
He writes (not to utter a reproach)
Horsekeeper decrepit Pegasus
whistles, Khlystov or graphite,
Retired minister Parnassus,
Parent of old poems,
And odes not too gromozvuchnyh,
And fairy tales rather boring.
I love the ease and peace,
And my partner is not a burden;
And eat and drink, I find time.
When will sometimes inadvertent
Verses scribbled find hunting,
The glory of Friendship il Eros, —
Immediately I finished his work.
I sit there with good friends
L am lying in bed feather,
L wander over the quiet waters
In the dark oak and the deaf,
Lost in thought - wave your hands
Suddenly I will speak on rhymes -
And no I do not sea
Frisky my poems ...
But if ever,
Wanting to relax in luxury,
Located in front of the fireplace,
One, free Mr.,
Still catch my thoughts, —
It is not for the name of the poet
Mara il two three verses,
And they sing in a low voice.
But you know?, oh my persecutor,
As I talk to you?
Pinda careless visitor,
I muse nezhus young ...
Already in the morning the bright shining
Fields and trees lit up;
It has long been the rooster crowed;
In polglaza napping - and yawning,
Chapelle in songs calling,
I write short poems,
Among the pleasant oblivion
Bending his head in the pillow,
And in simplicity, undecked,
My apologies term
Bit sonnoyu hand.
Under the shadow of laziness unknown
So lovely singer luxuriated,
When Rev. Vera sang,
Or painted with a smile
In a casual gusto
Secluded your attic.
In this position of the lazy
Verses flow this way and that.
Is it possible in your creation,
Unyav cheerful thoughts noise,
Then vperyat cold mind,
Finish spoil fiction,
Fruits swift wandering thoughts,
And reduce your pages? —
Anakreon, Chaulieu, boys,
labor enemies, worries, sorrow,
Not so, happened, In the old days
They sang his mistresses.
About you, kind singers,
Sons lazy carelessness,
For a long time you are given crowns
From Muse happy idleness,
But not brilliant gifts
poetry hardworking.
Him to the summit of Mount Fessalskiya
Were you the secret twists;
Merry Graces finger playful
Mladen lira revived,
And your chela twined
Children swarm of playful Paphos.
And I'm an inexperienced poet -
Careless your rhymes heir,
After you steal followed suit ...
And you, my long-winded preacher,
Curb scientist taste anger!
Go, screams, another battle
And throw the young sloth,
About it quietly regretting.
