Предстал мне раз – то был наверно сон –
С венком на голове Анакреон.
Умащены власы, лицо красно;
Заговорит – прольет из уст вино.
Шатался он, и бормотал, и мог,
Шатаясь, бормоча, свалиться с ног.
И дева веткой миртовой секла
Его по пухлым бедрам, весела;
Он целовал ее, обняв, но пыл
Его угаснул, ибо пьян он был.
В сердцах с него сняла венец она,
И мне была корона вручена;
С тех пор и я порой совсем нетрезв,
Как он распущен, похотлив и резв.



1017. THE VISION.

Methought I saw, as I did dream in bed,
A crawling vine about Anacreon's head.
Flushed was his face; his hairs with oil did shine;
And, as he spake, his mouth ran o'er with wine.
Tippled he was, and tippling lisped withal;
And lisping reeled, and reeling like to fall.
A young enchantress close by him did stand,
Tapping his plump thighs with a myrtle wand:
She smil'd; he kiss'd; and kissing, cull'd her too,
And being cup-shot, more he could not do.
For which, methought, in pretty anger she
Snatched off his crown, and gave the wreath to me;
Since when, methinks, my brains about do swim,
And I am wild and wanton like to him.