Читать книгу The Maid of Orleans - Фридрих Шиллер, Friedrich von Schiller - Страница 7

   No longer I'll endure it. I renounce

   This recreant monarch who forsakes himself.

   My valiant heart doth bleed, and I could rain

   Hot tear-drops from mine eyes, that robber-swords

   Partition thus the royal realm of France;

   That cities, ancient as the monarchy,

   Deliver to the foe the rusty keys,

   While here in idle and inglorious ease

   We lose the precious season of redemption.

   Tidings of Orleans' peril reach mine ear,

   Hither I sped from distant Normandy,

   Thinking, arrayed in panoply of war,

   To find the monarch with his marshalled hosts;

   And find him – here! begirt with troubadours,

   And juggling knaves, engaged in solving riddles,

   And planning festivals in Sorel's honor,

   As brooded o'er the land profoundest peace!

   The Constable hath gone; he will not brook

   Longer the spectacle of shame. I, too,

   Depart, and leave him to his evil fate.

   Here comes the king.