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Беспокойное бессмертие: 450 лет со дня рождения Уильяма Шекспира

Казавчинская Тамара Яковлевна

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Фантастика и фэнтези

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оксана2018-11-27

Вообще, я больше люблю новинки литератур

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Professor2018-11-27

Очень понравилась книга. Рекомендую!

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Vera.Li2016-02-21

Миленько и простенько, без всяких интриг

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ст.ст.2018-05-15

И что это было?

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Наталья222018-11-27

Сюжет захватывающий. Все-таки читать кни

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Беспокойное бессмертие: 450 лет со дня рождения Уильяма Шекспира - Казавчинская Тамара Яковлевна - Страница 38

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Exit.

Scene 2

Enter the corpse of Henry the Sixth, Halberds to guard it, lady Anne being the mourner [attended by Tressel, Berkeley, and other Gentlemen].

Anne

Set down, set down your honourable load,

If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,

Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament

Th’untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.

The bearers set down the hearse.

Poor key-cold figure of a holy king,

Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster,

Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood,

Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost

To hear the lamentations of poor Anne,

Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtered son,

Stabbed by the selfsame hand that made these wounds.

Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life,

I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.

Oh, cursèd be the hand that made these holes,

Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it,

Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence.

More direful hap betide that hated wretch

That makes us wretched by the death of thee

Than I can wish to wolves, to spiders, toads,

Or any creeping venomed thing that lives.

If ever he have child, abortive be it,

Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,

Whose ugly and unnatural aspèct

May fright the hopeful mother at the view,

And that be heir to his unhappiness.

If ever he have wife, let her be made

More miserable by the death of him

Than I am made by my young lord and thee.

Come now towards Chertsey with your holy load,

Taken from Paul’s to be interrèd there.

And still as you are weary of this weight,

Rest you while I lament King Henry’s corpse.

Enter Richard duke of Gloucester.

Richard

Stay, you that bear the corpse, and set it down.

Anne

What black magician conjures up this fiend

To stop devoted charitable deeds?

Richard

Villains, set down the corpse, or by Saint Paul,

I’ll make a corpse of him that disobeys.

Gentleman

My lord, stand back and let the coffin pass.

Richard

Unmannered dog, stand thou when I command.

Advance thy halberd higher than my breast,

Or by Saint Paul, I’ll strike thee to my foot

And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.

The bearers set down the hearse.

Anne

What, do you tremble? Are you all afraid?

Alas, I blame you not, for you are mortal,

And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.

Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell.

Thou hadst but power over his mortal body;

His soul thou canst not have. Therefore be gone.

Richard

Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.

Anne

Foul devil, for God’s sake hence, and trouble us not,

For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,

Filled it with cursing cries and deep exclaims.

If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,

Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.

O gentlemen, see, see, dead Henry’s wounds

Open their còngealed mouths and bleed afresh.

Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity,

For ʼtis thy presence that exhales this blood

From cold and empty veins where no blood dwells.

Thy deeds inhuman and unnatural

Provokes this deluge most unnatural.

O God, which this blood madʼst, revenge his death.

O earth, which this blood drinkʼstʼrevenge his death.

Either heavʼn with lightning strike the murdʼrer dead,

Or earth gape open wide and eat him quick,

As thou dost swallow up this good king’s blood,

Which his hell-governed arm hath butcherèd.

Richard

Lady, you know no rules of charity,

Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

Anne

Villain, thou knowʼst no law of God nor man.

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

Richard

But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

Anne

Oh, wonderful, when devils tell the truth!

Richard

More wonderful, when angels are so angry.

Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,

Of these supposèd crimes to give me leave

By circumstance but to acquit myself.

Anne

Vouchsafe, defused infection of a man,

Of these known evils but to give me leave

By circumstance to curse thy cursèd self.

Richard

Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have

Some patient leisure to excuse myself.

Anne

Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make

No èxcuse current but to hang thyself.

Richard

By such despair I should accuse myself.

Anne

And by despairing, shalst thou stand excused

For doing worthy vengeance on thyself,

Which didst unworthy slaughter upon others.

Richard

Say that I slew them not.

Anne

Then say they were not slain.

But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee.