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刘焕群,河北 石家庄人,我班的第一任班长。 班里的调干生之一。毕业后分配到北京二机部,后调任到位于石家庄的河北师范大学任教授, 系主任;河北省政府译审专家,2010  年被中  国译协授予资深翻译家称号。


刘焕群 1965

分组毕业照前排右一为刘焕群 1965

前排右二为刘焕群 1999天津


English Poet Mary Wroth (1587–1651)

Lady Mary Wroth
(This work of art is in the public domain.)

Lady Mary Wroth (1587–1651) was an English poet of the Renaissance. A member of a distinguished literary English family, Wroth was among the first female British writers to have achieved an enduring reputation. She is perhaps best known for having written The Countesse of Mountgomeries Urania, the first extant prose romance by an English woman, and for Pamphilia to Amphilanthus, the first known sonnet sequence by an English woman.

Mary Wroth was born on 18 October 1587 to Barbara Gamage (1563-1626) and Robert Sidney (1559-1621). Wroth's mother Barbara was a wealthy Welsh heiress and first cousin to Sir Walter Ralegh. Her father Robert was first earl of Leicester and Viscount Lisle of Penshurst, a poet and governor of Flushing, Netherlands. Mary Wroth was niece to Mary Sidney, Countess of Pembroke and one of the most distinguished women writers and patrons of the 16th century; and Sir Philip Sidney a famous Elizabethan poet-courtier. Because her father, Robert Sidney, was governor of Flushing, Wroth spent much of her childhood at the home of Mary Sidney, and Penshurst, Baynard’s Castle in London. Penshurt was one of the great country houses in the Elizabethan and Jacobean period. It was a center of literary and cultural activity and it's gracious hospitality is praised in Ben Jonson's famous poem To Penshurst. During a time when most women were illiterate, Wroth had the privilege of a formal education, which was obtained from household tutors under the guidance of her mother. As a young woman, Lady Mary belonged to Queen Anne’s intimate circle of friends and actively participated in masques and entertainments.

Adieu sweet Sun
(from Urania)
by Lady Mary Wroth
Adieu sweet Sun
Thy night is neare
Which must appeare
Like mine, whose light but new begun
Weares as if spun
By chance not right,
Led by a light
False, and pleasing, ever wun.

Come once in view
Sweet heat, and light
My heavy s'prit
Dull'd in thy setting, made anew
If you renew,
Daysies doe grow,
And spring below
Blest with thy warm'th, so once I grew.

Wilt thou returne,
Deare blesse mine eyes
Where loves zeale lyes
Let thy deere object mildly burne
Nor flie, but turne
'Tis season now
Each happy bow
Both buds and blooms, why should I mourne?

Unseen, Unknown
(from Urania)
by Lady Mary Wroth

Unseen, unknown, I here alone complain
To rocks, to hills, to meadows, and to springs,
Which can no help return to ease my pain,
But back my sorrows the sad Echo brings.
Thus still increasing are my woes to me,
Doubly resounded by that moanful voice,
Which seems to second me in misery,
And answer gives like friend of mine own choice.
Thus only she doth my companion prove,
The others silently do offer ease.
But those that grieve, a grieving note do love;
Pleasures to dying eyes bring but disease:
And such am I, who daily ending live,
Wailing a state which can no comfort give.

Here All Alone In Silence
(from Urania)
by Lady Mary Wroth

Here all alone in silence might I mourne:
But how can silence be where sorrowes flow?
Sighs with complaints have poorer paines out-worne;
But broken hearts can only true griefe show.

Drops of my dearest bloud shall let Love know
Such teares for her I shed, yet still do burne,
As no spring can quench least part of my woe,
Till this live earth, againe to earth doe turne.

Hatefull all thought of comfort is to me,
Despised day, let me still night possesse;
Let me all torments feele in their excesse,
And but this light allow my state to see.

Which still doth wast, and wasting as this light,
Are my sad dayes unto eternall night.

Song 1.  The Spring now come at last
(From Pamphilia to Amphilanthus)

The Spring now come at last
To Trees, Fields, to Flowres,
And Meadowes makes to taste
His pride, while sad showres
Which from mine eyes doe flow
Makes knowne with cruell paines,
Cold Winter yet remaines,
No signe of Springe wee knowe.

The Sunne which to the Earth
Gives heate, light, and pleasure,              
Joyes in Spring hateth Dearth,
Plenty makes his Treasure.
His heate to me is colde,
His light all darknesse is,
Since I am barrd of blisse,
I heate nor light behold.

A Shepherdesse thus said,
Who was with griefe opprest,
For truest Love betrayd,
Barrd her from quiet rest:                      
And weeping thus, said shee,
My end approacheth neere,
Now Willow must I weare,
My Fortune so will bee.

With Branches of this tree
Ile dresse my haplesse head,
Which shall my witnesse bee,
My hopes in Love are dead:
My cloathes imbroder'd all,
Shall be with Garlands round,                 
Some scatter'd, others bound;
Some tyde, some like to fall.

The Barke my Booke shall bee,
Where dayly I will write,
This tale of haples mee,
True slave to Fortunes spite.
The roote shall be my bedd,
Where nightly I will lye
Wailing inconstancy,
Since all true love is dead.                          

And these Lines I will leave,
If some such Lover come,
Who may them right conceive,
and place them on my Tombe:
She who still constant lov'd
Now dead with cruell care,
Kill'd with unkind Dispaire,
And change, her end heere prov'd.

(This work of art is in the public domain




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