King Richard III - Уильям Шекспир

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untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.

          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,

          Stabb'd by the self-same hand that made these wounds.

          Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life

          I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.

          O, cursed 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 adders, spiders, toads,

          Or any creeping venom'd thing that lives!

          If ever he have child, abortive be it,

          Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,

          Whose ugly and unnatural aspect

          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 interred there;

          And still as you are weary of this weight

          Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry's corse.

                                      [The bearers take up the coffin]

      Enter GLOUCESTER

        GLOUCESTER. Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.

        ANNE. What black magician conjures up this fiend

          To stop devoted charitable deeds?

        GLOUCESTER. Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul,

          I'll make a corse of him that disobeys!

        FIRST GENTLEMAN. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin

          pass.

        GLOUCESTER. Unmannerd 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 coffin]

        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.

        GLOUCESTER. 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

          Fill'd 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 congeal'd mouths and bleed afresh.

          Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity,

          For 'tis 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 mad'st, revenge his death!

          O earth, which this blood drink'st, revenge his death!

          Either, heav'n, with lightning strike the murd'rer dead;

          Or, earth, gape open wide and eat him quick,

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

          Which his hell-govern'd arm hath butchered.

        GLOUCESTER. Lady, you know no rules of charity,

          Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

        ANNE. Villain, thou knowest nor law of God nor man:

          No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

        GLOUCESTER. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

        ANNE. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!

        GLOUCESTER. More wonderful when angels are so angry.

          Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,

          Of these supposed crimes to give me leave

          By circumstance but to acquit myself.

        ANNE. Vouchsafe, diffus'd infection of a man,

          Of these known evils but to give me leave

          By circumstance to accuse thy cursed self.

        GLOUCESTER. 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 excuse current but to hang thyself.

        GLOUCESTER. By such despair I should accuse myself.

        ANNE. And by despairing shalt thou stand excused

          For doing worthy vengeance on thyself

          That didst unworthy slaughter upon others.

        GLOUCESTER. Say that I slew them not?

        ANNE. Then say they were not slain.

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

        GLOUCESTER. I did not kill your husband.

        ANNE. Why, then he is alive.

        GLOUCESTER. Nay, he is dead, and slain by Edward's hands.

        ANNE. In thy foul throat thou liest: Queen Margaret saw

          Thy murd'rous falchion smoking in his blood;

          The which thou once didst bend against her breast,

          But that thy brothers beat aside the point.

        GLOUCESTER. I was provoked by her sland'rous tongue

          That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.

        ANNE.

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