这恐怕是我听过的最迷人的英音了……

Love is like the wild rose-briar,

Friendship like the holly-tree.

The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, 

But which will bloom most constantly?  

The wild rose-briar is sweet in the spring,

Its summer blossoms scent the air;

Yet wait till winter comes again,

And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,

And deck thee with the holly's sheen,

That, when December blights thy brow,

He may still leave thy garland green.

朗诵原文如下：

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ‘prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.

（节选自Bleak House, by Charles Dickens ，Chapter I — In Chancery）

图片来源：IMDb

中译本译文：

到处是雾。雾笼罩着河的上游，在绿色的小岛和草地之间飘荡；雾笼罩着河的下游，在鳞次栉比的船只之间、在这个大（而脏）的都市河边的污秽之间滚动，滚得它自己也变脏了。雾笼罩着厄色克斯均的沼泽，雾笼罩着肯德郡的高地。雾爬进煤船的厨房；雾躺在大船的帆桁上，徘徊在巨舫的桅樯绳索之间；雾低悬在大平底船和小木船的舷边。雾钻进了格林威治区那些靠养老金过活、待在收容室火炉边呼哧呼哧喘气的老人的眼睛和喉咙里；雾钻进了在密室里生气的小商船船长下午抽的那一袋烟的烟管和烟斗里；雾残酷地折磨着他那在甲板上瑟缩发抖的小学徒的手指和脚趾。偶然从桥上走过的人们，从栏杆上窥视下面的雾天，四周一片迷雾，犹如乘着气球，漂浮在白茫茫的云端。

（选自上海译文出版社1979年译本）

All the world's a stage.

And all the men and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances.

And one man is his time plays many parts.

His acts being seven ages.

At first, the infant.

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

And then the whining schoolboy with his satchel.

And shining morning face, creeping like snail, unwillingly to school.

And then the lover.

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad made to his mistress' eyebrow.

Then a soldier.

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard.

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel.

Seeking the bubble reputation, even in the canon's mouth.

And then the justice.

In fair round belly with good capon lined.

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut.

Full of wise saws and modern instances.

And so he plays his part.

The sixes age shifts into the lean and slippered pantaloon.

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side.

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide for his shrunk shank.

And his big manly voice.

Turning again towards childish treble, pipes and whistles in his sound.

Last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history.

In second childishness and mere oblivion.

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

All this time, Estella knitted on. When Miss Havisham had fixed her attention on me, she said, speaking as if there had been no lapse in our dialogue:

“What else?”

“Estella,” said I, turning to her now, and trying to command my trembling voice, “you know I love you. You know that I have loved you long and dearly.”

She raised her eyes to my face, on being thus addressed, and her fingers plied their work, and she looked at me with an unmoved countenance. I saw that Miss Havisham glanced from me to her, and from her to me.

“I should have said this sooner, but for my long mistake. It induced me to hope that Miss Havisham meant us for one another. While I thought you could not help yourself, as it were, I refrained from saying it. But I must say it now.”

Preserving her unmoved countenance, and with her fingers still going, Estella shook her head.

“I know,” said I, in answer to that action; “I know. I have no hope that I shall ever call you mine, Estella. I am ignorant what may become of me very soon, how poor I may be, or where I may go. Still, I love you. I have loved you ever since I first saw you in this house.”

Looking at me perfectly unmoved and with her fingers busy, she shook her head again.

“It would have been cruel in Miss Havisham, horribly cruel, to practise on the susceptibility of a poor boy, and to torture me through all these years with a vain hope and an idle pursuit, if she had reflected on the gravity of what she did. But I think she did not. I think that in the endurance of her own trial, she forgot mine, Estella.”

I saw Miss Havisham put her hand to her heart and hold it there, as she sat looking by turns at Estella and at me.

“It seems,” said Estella, very calmly, “that there are sentiments, fancies—I don’t know how to call them—which I am not able to comprehend. When you say you love me, I know what you mean, as a form of words; but nothing more. You address nothing in my breast, you touch nothing there. I don’t care for what you say at all. I have tried to warn you of this; now, have I not?”

I said in a miserable manner, “Yes.”

“Yes. But you would not be warned, for you thought I did not mean it. Now, did you not think so?”

“I thought and hoped you could not mean it. You, so young, untried, and beautiful, Estella! Surely it is not in Nature.”

“It is in my nature,” she returned. And then she added, with a stress upon the words, “It is in the nature formed within me. I make a great difference between you and all other people when I say so much. I can do no more.”

“Is it not true,” said I, “that Bentley Drummle is in town here, and pursuing you?”

“It is quite true,” she replied, referring to him with the indifference of utter contempt.

“That you encourage him, and ride out with him, and that he dines with you this very day?”

She seemed a little surprised that I should know it, but again replied, “Quite true.”

“You cannot love him, Estella!”

Her fingers stopped for the first time, as she retorted rather angrily, “What have I told you? Do you still think, in spite of it, that I do not mean what I say?”

“You would never marry him, Estella?”

She looked towards Miss Havisham, and considered for a moment with her work in her hands. Then she said, “Why not tell you the truth? I am going to be married to him.”

I dropped my face into my hands, but was able to control myself better than I could have expected, considering what agony it gave me to hear her say those words. When I raised my face again, there was such a ghastly look upon Miss Havisham’s, that it impressed me, even in my passionate hurry and grief.

“Estella, dearest dearest Estella, do not let Miss Havisham lead you into this fatal step. Put me aside for ever—you have done so, I well know—but bestow yourself on some worthier person than Drummle. Miss Havisham gives you to him, as the greatest slight and injury that could be done to the many far better men who admire you, and to the few who truly love you. Among those few, there may be one who loves you even as dearly, though he has not loved you as long, as I. Take him, and I can bear it better, for your sake!”