Prevod
(Against two kinds of bad translators.) A sword had served in many battles, Polished, slender, keen, and finely tempered, The most renowned ever to leave the hands Of an illustrious Toledo swordsmith. It passed into the hands of many owners, 5 And brought them safely through a thousand trials. It was sold at one auction after another Until, through a strange series of events, It finally ended up—who would believe it?— In a dark corner of an inn, 10 Where, propped aside like useless furniture, It gathered rust. One day a servant girl, At the bidding of her master, the innkeeper, Who must have been a monumental fool, Carried it off into the kitchen, 15 And skewered a chicken on its blade; And there you have a proper roasting spit Made of what once was an honorable, useful sword. While this was happening at the inn, A stranger newly come to court wished to buy a sword, 20 Having transformed himself from country bumpkin into gentleman. The swordsmith, seeing that nowadays A sword is nothing but an ornament, And any blade will pass for a good one Provided that its hilt is in the fashion, 25 Told him to come back the following day. He took a roasting spit from his own kitchen, Ground it down, sharpened it, and polished it, And as a sword by Tomás de Ayala 30 Sold it to the poor stranger, who knew nothing Of purchases of this sort; The swordsmith proving quite as great a rogue As the innkeeper had proved a fool. But might not our own nation complain 35 Of equal ignorance or knavery In those two kinds of translators Who infest it with their phrases? Some translate celebrated works And turn swords into roasting spits; 40 Others translate the very worst And sell us roasting spits as swords.
