J.Kochanowski - Pieśni - Księga pierwsza.docx

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                                                                                                                                                          Pieśni - Księga - 1                                                                                                                                                                      Pieśń  1                                                                                                                                                                            Serce roście patrząc na te czasy!                                                                                                                                                                     Mało przed tym gołe były lasy,                                                                                                                                             Śnieg na ziemi wyższej łokcia leżał,                                                                                                                                 A po rzekach wóz najcięższy zbieżał.                                                                                                                                                              Teraz drzewa liście na się wzięły,                                                                                                                                                                                     Polne łąki pięknie zakwitnęły;                                                                                                                                                                       Lody zeszły, a po czystej wodzie                                                                                                                                                                                                       Idą statki i ciosane łodzie.                                                                                                                                           Teraz prawie świat się wszystek śmieje,                                                                                                                                   Zboża wstały, wiatr zachodni wieje;                                                                                                                                            Ptacy sobie gniazda obmyślają,                                                                                                                                    A przede dniem śpiewać poczynają.                                                                                                                                        Ale to grunt wesela prawego                                                                                                                                       Kiedy człowiek sumnienia całego                                                                                                                                   Ani czuje w sercu żadnej wady,                                                                                                                                          Przeczby się miał wstydać swojej rady.                                                                                                                               Temu wina nie trzeba przylewać                                                                                                                                       Ani grać na lutni, ani śpiewać;                                                                                                                              Będzie wesół, byś chciał, i o wodzie,                                                                                                                                                                              Bo się czuje prawie na swobodzie.                                                                                                                                    Ale kogo gryzie mól zakryty,                                                                                                                                                          Nie idzie mu w smak obiad obfity;                                                                                                                                     Żadna go pieśń, żadny głos nie ruszy,                                                                                                                                                                     Wszystko idzie na wiatr mimo uszu.                                                                                                                                                Dobra myśli, której nie przywabi,                                                                                                                                   Choć kto ściany drogo ujedwabi,                                                                                                                                            Nie gardź moim chłodnikiem chruścianym,                                                                                                           A bądź ze mną, z trzeźwym i z pijanym!                                                        S.187                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Pieśń   2                                                                                                                                                                       Dzbanie mój pisany,                                                                                                                                                                            Dzbanie polewany,                                                                                                                                                     Bądź płacz, bądź żarty, bądź gorące wojny,                                                                                                                               Bądź miłość niesiesz albo sen spokojny,                                                                                                                                                               Jakokolwiek zwano                                                                                                                                                                                                               Wino, co w cię lano;                                                                                                                                                            Przymkni się do nas, a daj się nachylić,                                                                                                                           Chciałbym twym darem gości swych posilić!                                                                                                                                         I ten cię nie minie,                                                                                                                                                           Choć kto mądrym słynie;                                                                                                                                                 Pijali przed tym i filozofowie,                                                                                                                                        A przedsię mieli spełna rozum w głowie.                                                                                                                                             Ty zmiękczysz każdego,                                                                                                                                                                            Nastatecznijszego;                                                                                                                                                                                                       Ty mądrych sprawy i tajemną radę                                                                                                                             Na świat wydawasz przez twą cichą zdradę.                                                           ...

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