Back перевод пер. С. Маршака, Шекспир, сон. 55

The mossy marble of the regal tombs
Will disappear earlier than words,
In which I had your pretty image stored,
No any dust would stick to it for more.

Then let the war overturns the statue,
A mutiny crashes the work of mason,
But letters, cut in memory, asserted,
Would not be cleaned up by a moving century.

Not death will carry you to bottom once,
Nor darkness of oblivion in the proceeding war.
You, with posterity, will take a glance
And wear out the whole world - to see a court.

Then let you live forever till the rise
In my verse, in my heart - with love!