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19.04.2015| Анастасия| 4 комментариев

Ромео и Джульетта / Romeo and Juliet Уильям Шекспир

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Came he not home to-night? I spoke with his man. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, Torments him so that he will sure run mad. A challenge, on my life. Romeo will answer it. Any man that can write may answer a letter.

Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! Why, what is Tybalt? More than Prince of Cats, I can tell you. He fights as you sing pricksong-keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom! Ah, the immortal passado! The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes- these new tuners of accent! O, their bones, their bones! Without his roe, like a dried herring.

O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in. Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench marry, she had a better love to berhyme her , Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gypsy, Helen and Hero hildings and harlots, This be a gray eye or so, but not to the purpose.

Signior Romeo, bon jour! You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? The slip, sir, the slip. Can you not conceive? My business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy. Thou hast most kindly hit it. A most courteous exposition. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. Follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out thy pump, that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, solely singular.

O single-sold jest, solely singular for the singleness! Come between us, good Benvolio! Swits and spurs, swits and spurs! Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done; for thou hast more of the wild goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five. Was I with you there for the goose?

Thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not there for the goose. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. Nay, good goose, bite not! Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature.

For this drivelling love is like a great natural that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole. Stop there, stop there! Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.

Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large. I would have made it short; for I was come to the whole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no longer. A sail, a sail! God ye good morrow, gentlemen. God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman. What a man are you! One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar. By my troth, it is well said. Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo? I can tell you; but young Romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when you sought him.

I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse. Yea, is the worst well? If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you. She will endite him to some supper.

A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! What hast thou found? No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent He walks by them and sings. An old hare hoar, And an old hare hoar, Is very good meat in Lent; But a hare that is hoar Is too much for a score When it hoars ere it be spent. I will follow you. Farewell, [sings] lady, lady, lady. I Pray you, Sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his ropery? A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.

I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of his skains-mates. And thou must stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure! I saw no man use you at his pleasure. If I had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you. I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side. Now, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me quivers. Pray you, sir, a word; and, as I told you, my young lady bid me enquire you out.

Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto thee- Nurse. Good heart, and I faith I will tell her as much. What wilt thou tell her, nurse? Thou dost not mark me. I will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer. Here is for thy pains. No, truly, sir; not a penny. I say you shall. Well, she shall be there. And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey wall.

Within this hour my man shall be with thee And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair, Which to the high topgallant of my joy Must be my convoy in the secret night. Commend me to thy mistress. Now God in heaven bless thee! Is your man secret? Well, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter? Ay, nurse; what of that? Both with an R. R is for the- No; I know it begins with some other letter; and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it.

Commend me to thy lady. Ay, a thousand times. Peter, take my fan, and go before, and apace. Perchance she cannot meet him. O, she is lame! Had she affections and warm youthful blood, She would be as swift in motion as a ball; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me, But old folks, many feign as they were dead- Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.

O God, she comes! O honey nurse, what news? Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away. Peter, stay at the gate. Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news By playing it to me with so sour a face. I am aweary, give me leave awhile. Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunce have I had! I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news. Nay, come, I pray thee speak. Good, good nurse, speak. Can you not stay awhile? Do you not see that I am out of breath?

How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath? The excuse that thou dost make in this delay Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.

Is thy news good or bad? Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man. Go thy ways, wench; serve God. But all this did I know before. What says he of our marriage? Lord, how my head aches! What a head have I! It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. Beshrew your heart for sending me about To catch my death with jauncing up and down! Sweet, sweet, Sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love? Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome; and, I warrant, a virtuous- Where is your mother?

Where is my mother? Why, she is within. Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest! Are you so hot? Marry come up, I trow. Is this the poultice for my aching bones? Henceforward do your messages yourself. Come, what says Romeo? Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day? Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks: I am the drudge, and toil in your delight; But you shall bear the burthen soon at night.

Hie to high fortune! So smile the heavens upon this holy act That after-hours with sorrow chide us not! But come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy That one short minute gives me in her sight. Do thou but close our hands with holy words, Then love-devouring death do what he dare- It is enough I may but call her mine.

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite. Here comes the lady. A lover may bestride the gossamer That idles in the wanton summer air, And yet not fall; so light is vanity. Good even to my ghostly confessor.

Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both. As much to him, else is his thanks too much. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament. They are but beggars that can count their worth; But my true love is grown to such excess cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.

Come, come with me, and we will make short work; For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone Till Holy Church incorporate two in one. The day is hot, the Capulets abroad. And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl, For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring. Am I like such a fellow? Come, come, thou art as hot a jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other.

Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter, with another for tying his new shoes with an old riband?

And yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling! An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter. By my head, here come the Capulets. By my heel, I care not. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. A word with one of you. And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow.

You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion. Could you not take some occasion without giving Tyb. Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo. What, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. We talk here in the public haunt of men. Either withdraw unto some private place And reason coldly of your grievances, Or else depart. Here all eyes gaze on us.

Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man. Your worship in that sense may call him man. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford No better term than this: Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee Doth much excuse the appertaining rage To such a greeting. Villain am I none.

I see thou knowest me not. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission! Alla stoccata carries it away. What wouldst thou have with me? Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. That I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter,. Will you pluck your sword out of his pitcher by the ears?

Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. I am for you. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. Come, sir, your passado! Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons. Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath Forbid this bandying in Verona streets.

Is he gone and hath nothing? What, art thou hurt? Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon. The hurt cannot be much. Ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm. I thought all for the best. Help me into some house, Benvolio, Or I shall faint. I have it, And soundly too.

Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. Alive in triumph, and Mercutio slain? Either thou or I, or both, must go with him. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, Shalt with him hence.

This shall determine that. Romeo, away, be gone! The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain. The Prince will doom thee death If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away! Why dost thou stay? Tybalt, that murtherer, which way ran he? There lies that Tybalt. Up, sir, go with me. Where are the vile beginners of this fray? I can discover all The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl.

There lies the man, slain by young Romeo, That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio. Prince, as thou art true, For blood of ours shed blood of Montague. Benvolio, who began this bloody fray? This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.

He is a kinsman to the Montague; Affection makes him false, he speaks not true. Some twenty of them fought in this black strife, And all those twenty could but kill one life. I beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give. Romeo slew Tybalt; Romeo must not live. Romeo slew him; he slew Mercutio. Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe? And for that offence Immediately we do exile him hence.

I will be deaf to pleading and excuses; Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses. Let Romeo hence in haste, Else, when he is found, that hour is his last. Bear hence this body, and attend our will.

Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill. Such a wagoner As Phaeton would whip you to the West And bring in cloudy night immediately. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties; or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. So tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them.

O, here comes my nurse,. Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? Ay, ay, the cords. Why dost thou wring thy hands Nurse. We are undone, lady, we are undone! Can heaven be so envious? Romeo can, Though heaven cannot. Who ever would have thought it? What devil art thou that dost torment me thus? Hath Romeo slain himself? I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, God save the mark! I swounded at the sight. O, break, my heart! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here, And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier!

O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had! What storm is this that blows so contrary? Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom!

For who is living, if those two are gone? It did, it did! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Despised substance of divinest show!

O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace! Give me some aqua vitae. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame come to Romeo! He was not born to shame.

O, what a beast was I to chide at him! Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?

But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring! Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.

All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Where is my father and my mother, nurse? Will you go to them? I will bring you thither. Wash they his wounds with tears?

Take up those cords. He made you for a highway to my bed; But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. Come, cords; come, nurse. Hie to your chamber. I wot well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company. Hence from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself.

This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. Heaven is here, Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her; But Romeo may not. More validity, More honourable state, more courtship lives In carrion flies than Romeo. This may flies do, when I from this must fly; They are free men, but I am banished.

And sayest thou yet that exile is not death? O friar, the damned use that word in hell; Howling attends it! Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. O, then I see that madmen have no ears.

How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave.

Good Romeo, hide thyself. Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans, Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes. Hark, how they knock! Romeo, arise; Thou wilt be taken. Run to my study. Who knocks so hard? I come from Lady Juliet. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. Stand up, stand up! Stand, an you be a man. Why should you fall into so deep an O?

Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her? O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; And now falls on her bed, and then starts up, And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again. O, tell me, friar, tell me, In what vile part of this anatomy Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack The hateful mansion. Hold thy desperate hand. Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art; Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast.

Unseemly woman in a seeming man! Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself? And slay thy lady that in thy life lives, By doing damned hate upon thyself? Why railest thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose.

What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead. There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slewest Tybalt. There art thou happy too. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. Go get thee to thy love, as was decreed, Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her. Commend me to thy lady, And bid her hasten all the house to bed, Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.

O, what learning is! Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. Here is a ring she bid me give you, sir. Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. Go hence; good night; and here stands all your state: Give me thy hand. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Well, we were born to die. I promise you, but for your company, I would have been abed an hour ago.

These times of woe afford no tune to woo. Commend me to your daughter. Well, Wednesday is too soon. Thursday let it be- a Thursday, tell her She shall be married to this noble earl. Will you be ready? Do you like this haste?

But what say you to Thursday? My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow. Well, get you gone. A Thursday be it then. Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed; Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day.

Afore me, It is so very very late That we may call it early by-and-by. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. It was the lark, the herald of the morn; No nightingale.

Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East. I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Yond light is not daylight; I know it, I. It is some meteor that the sun exhales To be to thee this night a torchbearer And light thee on the way to Mantua. I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I have more care to stay than will to go.

Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so. It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away! It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.

Some say the lark makes sweet division; This doth not so, for she divideth us. O, now be gone! More light and light it grows. More light and light- more dark and dark our woes! Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke; be wary, look about. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. Art thou gone so, my lord, my love, my friend?

I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there are many days. O, by this count I shall be much in years Ere I again behold my Romeo! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come. O God, I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you.

Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Be fickle, Fortune, For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long But send him back. It is my lady mother.

Is she not down so late, or up so early? Why, how now, Juliet? Madam, I am not well. What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live. Some grief shows much of love; But much of grief shows still some want of wit. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you weep for. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.

That same villain Romeo. I do, with all my heart; And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. That is because the traitor murderer lives. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. Then weep no more. Madam, if you could find out but a man To bear a poison, I would temper it; That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, Soon sleep in quiet. And joy comes well in such a needy time.

What are they, I beseech your ladyship? Madam, in happy time! What day is that? I wonder at this haste, that I must wed Ere he that should be husband comes to woo. These are news indeed! Here comes your father. Tell him so yourself, And see how be will take it at your hands. What, still in tears? For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs, Who, raging with thy tears and they with them, Without a sudden calm will overset Thy tempest-tossed body.

Have you delivered to her our decree? Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave! Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest, Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom? Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, But thankful even for hate that is meant love. How, how, how, how, choplogic? Out, you green-sickness carrion I out, you baggage!

Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word. Hang thee, young baggage! I tell thee what- get thee to church a Thursday Or never after look me in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not answer me!

Wife, we scarce thought us blest That God had lent us but this only child; But now I see this one is one too much, And that we have a curse in having her. Out on her, hilding! God in heaven bless her! You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. And why, my Lady Wisdom? Hold your tongue, Good Prudence. Smatter with your gossips, go! I speak no treason.

May not one speak? Peace, you mumbling fool! You are too hot. Graze where you will, you shall not house with me. Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise: Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief?

O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week; Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven. How shall that faith return again to earth Unless that husband send it me from heaven By leaving earth?

Comfort me, counsel me. Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft a subject as myself! Hast thou not a word of joy? Faith, here it is. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the County. An eagle, madam, Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye As Paris hath. And from my soul too; else beshrew them both. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.

Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. O most wicked fiend! Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. If all else fail, myself have power to die. The time is very short. My father Capulet will have it so, And I am nothing slow to slack his haste. Uneven is the course; I like it not. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous That she do give her sorrow so much sway, And in his wisdom hastes our marriage To stop the inundation of her tears, Which, too much minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society.

Now do you know the reason of this haste. Happily met, my lady and my wife! That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.

That may be must be, love, on Thursday next. What must be shall be. Come you to make confession to this father? To answer that, I should confess to you. Do not deny to him that you love me. I will confess to you that I love him. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back, than to your face. The tears have got small victory by that, For it was bad enough before their spite.

That is no slander, sir, which is a truth; And what I spake, I spake it to my face. It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now, Or shall I come to you at evening mass Friar.

My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now. My lord, we must entreat the time alone. God shield I should disturb devotion! Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye. Till then, adieu, and keep this holy kiss. O, shut the door! Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my wits.

I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, On Thursday next be married to this County. Be not so long to speak. I do spy a kind of hope, Which craves as desperate an execution As that is desperate which we would prevent. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. To-morrow night look that thou lie alone; Let not the nurse lie with thee in thy chamber.

Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead. Then, as the manner of our country is, In thy best robes uncovered on the bier Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.

In the mean time, against thou shalt awake, Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift; And hither shall he come; and he and I Will watch thy waking, and that very night Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.

Но дело даже не в этом. Дело в том, что когда летний ребёнок сегодня пишет "Умереть ради любимого, которого знаешь 3 дня Да и пьеса-то не о любви двух подростков, она о любви вообще.

Не только между мужчиной и женщиной, но о самом понятии любви к ближнему. О том, насколько глупа бывает вражда, что из-за неё погибают надежды на будущее. О том, что зачастую мы понимаем цену своей ошибки, когда стоимость её достигает предела - потери родного человека.

О том, что для любви не бывает преград, потому что это самое чистое, возвышенное, но одновременно самое жестокое и тяжёлое чувство. Как жаль, что, прочитав одну из величайших пьес английского гения, современный читатель считает, что имеет право иронически посмеяться и назвать произведение глупостью.

Как жаль, что люди разучились думать и сопереживать. В каждом произведении Шекспира можно выделить какую-то мысль, но каждый читатель видит своё в силу своего жизненного опыта. Подписываюсь под каждым словом. Только ведь эту мысль человек должен увидеть между строк сам, а если приходится её разжёвывать и класть в рот- то такому человеку ещё рано читать Шекспира. У меня лично любимое произведение Шекспира "Укрощение строптивой", и лучшей Катарины, чем Людмила Касаткина для меня нет.

Видеоанонс Включить видео youtube. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Quinx, или Рассказ Потрошителя. Ада, или Радости страсти. Редактировать описание Залить книгу Список книг Добавить рецензию Добавить цитату Добавить похожее Сообщить об ошибке. Входит в коллекцию Эта сладкая мука - любовь Лучшие романы о любви А не спеть ли нам песню? Какие найух огороды и огродники? Скажите, а это полная версия? Пойду я лучше перевод Пастернака прочитаю Гамлет, Макбет, Король лир на одном дыханье, концовку ведь не знал,а тут Рамео и Джульетта.

Не люблю я этот перевод. Похожее 1Q84 Книга 2. Copyrights and trademarks for the book, and other promotional materials are the property of their respective owners. Я благодарю тех кто перевел и добавил это произведение на Librebook, благодаря вам я смогла прочитать и добавлять закладки именно на том месте где остановилась, СПАСИБО: Скачать fb2 epub mobi.