J.Kochanowski - Pieśni - Księga trzecia.docx

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                                                                                                        Pieśni – Księga trzecia                                                                                                                                     Pieśń świętojańska o sobótce                                                                                                                             (Fragmenty)                                                                                                                                                       Gdy słońce Raka zagrzewa,                                                                                                               A słowik więcej nie śpiewa.                                                                     Sobótkę , jako czas niesie,                                                                                                Zapalono w Czarnym Lesie.                                                                                                        Tam goście, tam i domowi                                                                                                                     Sypali się ku ogniowi;                                                                        Bąki za raz troje grały,                                                                                                                                   A sady się sprzeciwiały.                                                                                                                      Siedli wszyscy na murawie;                                                                                                                                                        Potem wstało sześć par prawie                                                                                                                 Dziewek jednako ubranych                                                                                                                                                     I belicą przepasanych.                                                                                                                                       Wszytki śpiewać nauczone,                                                                                                                 W tańcu także niezganione;                                                                                                                                       Więc koleją zaczynały,                                                                                                                                A pierwszej tak począć dały:                                                                                                                  (………………………………………….)                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Panna  IV                                                                                                                                                                                   Komum ja kwiateczki rwała,                                                                                                               A ten wianek gotowała?                                                                                                                          Tobie miły, nie inszemu,                                                                                                                                      Któryś sam mil sercu memu.                                                                                                                     Włóż na piękną głowę twoje                                                                                                                          Tę rozkwitłą pracą moję;                                                                                                                             A mnie samę na sercu mniej,                                                                                                                                                                  Toż  i o mnie sam rozumniej.                                                                                                                                      Żadna chwila ta nie była,                                                                                                                            Żadnych cię z myśli spuściła;                                                                                                                    I sen mię pracę nie zbawi,                                                     s.203                                                                                                                    Spię, a myślę, by na jawi.                                                                                                                                                  Tę nadzieję mam o tobie,                                                                                                                                            Że mię też masz za co sobie:                                                                                                                                                Ani wzgardzisz chucią moją,                                                                                                                    Ale mi ją oddasz swoją.                                                                                                        Tego zataić nie mogę,                                                                                                                            Co mi w sercu czyni trwogę;                                                                                                                          Wszystki tu wzrok ostry mają                                                                                                           I co piękne, dobrze znają.                                                                                                                                  Prze Bóg, siostry, o to proszę,                                                                                                                                      Niech tej krzywdy nie odnoszę,                                                                                                                                                            By mnie która w to tknąć miała,                                                                                                                                                                  O com ja się utroskała.                                                                                                                                                        O wszelaką inszą szkodę                                                                                                                          Łacno przyzwolę na zgodę;                                                                                                                          Ale kto mię w miłość ruszy,                                                                                                             Wiecznie będzie krzyw mej duszy!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Panna   VI                                                                                                                                                                   Gorące dni nastawają,                                                                                                                       Suche role się padają;                                                                                                                      Polny świerszcz, co głosu utaje,                                                                                                                                                                                                    Gwałtownemu słońcu łaje.                                                                                                                                                     Już mdłe bydło szuka cienia                                                                                                                                              I ciekącego strumienia,                                                                                                                                 I pasterze, chodząc za niem,                                                                                                                                 Budzą lasy swoim graniem.                                                                                                                                        Żyto się w polu dostwa                                                                                                                     I swoją barwą znać dawa,                                                                                                                                                                                             Iż już niedaleko żniwo;                                                                                                                                       Miej się do sierpa co żywo!                                                                                                                                                                                                   Sierpa trzeba oziminie,                                                                                                                                                                     ...

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