Читать книгу Richard II - Уильям Шекспир, William Szekspir, the Simon Studio - Страница 3

Mar. My L[ord]. Aumerle, is Harry Herford arm'd

Aum. Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in

   Mar. The Duke of Norfolke, sprightfully and bold,

Stayes but the summons of the Appealants Trumpet

   Au. Why then the Champions, are prepar'd, and stay

For nothing but his Maiesties approach.

Flourish.

  Rich. Marshall, demand of yonder Champion

The cause of his arriuall heere in Armes,

Aske him his name, and orderly proceed

To sweare him in the iustice of his cause

   Mar. In Gods name, and the Kings say who y art,

And why thou com'st thus knightly clad in Armes?

Against what man thou com'st, and what's thy quarrell,

Speake truly on thy knighthood, and thine oath,

As so defend thee heauen, and thy valour

   Mow. My name is Tho[mas]. Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,

Who hither comes engaged by my oath

(Which heauen defend a knight should violate)

Both to defend my loyalty and truth,

To God, my King, and his succeeding issue,

Against the Duke of Herford, that appeales me:

And by the grace of God, and this mine arme,

To proue him (in defending of my selfe)

A Traitor to my God, my King, and me,

And as I truly fight, defend me heauen.

  Rich. Marshall: Aske yonder Knight in Armes,

Both who he is, and why he commeth hither,

Thus placed in habiliments of warre:

And formerly according to our Law

Depose him in the iustice of his cause

   Mar. What is thy name? and wherfore comst y hither

Before King Richard in his Royall Lists?

Against whom com'st thou? and what's thy quarrell?

Speake like a true Knight, so defend thee heauen

   Bul. Harry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derbie,

Am I: who ready heere do stand in Armes,

To proue by heauens grace, and my bodies valour,

In Lists, on Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolke,

That he's a Traitor foule, and dangerous,

To God of heauen, King Richard, and to me,

And as I truly fight, defend me heauen

   Mar. On paine of death, no person be so bold,

Or daring hardie as to touch the Listes,

Except the Marshall, and such Officers

Appointed to direct these faire designes

   Bul. Lord Marshall, let me kisse my Soueraigns hand,

And bow my knee before his Maiestie:

For Mowbray and my selfe are like two men,

That vow a long and weary pilgrimage,

Then let vs take a ceremonious leaue

And louing farwell of our seuerall friends

   Mar. The Appealant in all duty greets your Highnes,

And craues to kisse your hand, and take his leaue

   Rich. We will descend, and fold him in our armes.

Cosin of Herford, as thy cause is iust,

So be thy fortune in this Royall fight:

Farewell, my blood, which if to day thou shead,

Lament we may, but not reuenge thee dead

   Bull. Oh let no noble eye prophane a teare

For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbrayes speare:

As confident, as is the Falcons flight

Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.

My louing Lord, I take my leaue of you,

Of you (my Noble Cosin) Lord Aumerle;

Not sicke, although I haue to do with death,

But lustie, yong, and cheerely drawing breath.

Loe, as at English Feasts, so I regreete

The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.

Oh thou the earthy author of my blood,

Whose youthfull spirit in me regenerate,

Doth with a two-fold rigor lift mee vp

To reach at victory aboue my head,

Adde proofe vnto mine Armour with thy prayres,

And with thy blessings steele my Lances point,

That it may enter Mowbrayes waxen Coate,

And furnish new the name of Iohn a Gaunt,

Euen in the lusty hauiour of his sonne

   Gaunt. Heauen in thy good cause make thee prosp'rous

Be swift like lightning in the execution,

And let thy blowes doubly redoubled,

Fall like amazing thunder on the Caske

Of thy amaz'd pernicious enemy.

Rouze vp thy youthfull blood, be valiant, and liue

Bul. Mine innocence, and S[aint]. George to thriue

   Mow. How euer heauen or fortune cast my lot,

There liues, or dies, true to Kings Richards Throne,

A loyall, iust, and vpright Gentleman:

Neuer did Captiue with a freer heart,

Cast off his chaines of bondage, and embrace

His golden vncontroul'd enfranchisement,

More then my dancing soule doth celebrate

This Feast of Battell, with mine Aduersarie.

Most mighty Liege, and my companion Peeres,

Take from my mouth, the wish of happy yeares,

As gentle, and as iocond, as to iest,

Go I to fight: Truth, hath a quiet brest

   Rich. Farewell, my Lord, securely I espy

Vertue with Valour, couched in thine eye:

Order the triall Marshall, and begin

   Mar. Harrie of Herford, Lancaster, and Derby,

Receiue thy Launce, and heauen defend thy right

Bul. Strong as a towre in hope, I cry Amen

Mar. Go beare this Lance to Thomas D[uke]. of Norfolke

   1.Har. Harry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derbie,

Stands heere for God, his Soueraigne, and himselfe,

On paine to be found false, and recreant,

To proue the Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Mowbray,

A Traitor to his God, his King, and him,

And dares him to set forwards to the fight

   2.Har. Here standeth Tho[mas]: Mowbray Duke of Norfolk

On paine to be found false and recreant,

Both to defend himselfe, and to approue

Henry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derby,

To God, his Soueraigne, and to him disloyall:

Couragiously, and with a free desire

Attending but the signall to begin.

A charge sounded

  Mar. Sound Trumpets, and set forward Combatants:

Stay, the King hath throwne his Warder downe

   Rich. Let them lay by their Helmets & their Speares,

And both returne backe to their Chaires againe:

Withdraw with vs, and let the Trumpets sound,

While we returne these Dukes what we decree.

A long Flourish.

Draw neere and list

What with our Councell we haue done.

For that our kingdomes earth should not be soyld

With that deere blood which it hath fostered,

And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect

Of ciuill wounds plowgh'd vp with neighbors swords,

Which so rouz'd vp with boystrous vntun'd drummes,

With harsh resounding Trumpets dreadfull bray,

And grating shocke of wrathfull yron Armes,

Might from our quiet Confines fright faire peace,

And make vs wade euen in our kindreds blood:

Therefore, we banish you our Territories.

You Cosin Herford, vpon paine of death,

Till twice fiue Summers haue enrich'd our fields,

Shall not regreet our faire dominions,

But treade the stranger pathes of banishment

   Bul. Your will be done: This must my comfort be,

That Sun that warmes you heere, shall shine on me:

And those his golden beames to you heere lent,

Shall point on me, and gild my banishment

   Rich. Norfolke: for thee remaines a heauier dombe,

Which I with some vnwillingnesse pronounce,

The slye slow houres shall not determinate

The datelesse limit of thy deere exile:

The hopelesse word, of Neuer to returne,

Breath I against thee, vpon paine of life

   Mow. A heauy sentence, my most Soueraigne Liege,

And all vnlook'd for from your Highnesse mouth:

A deerer merit, not so deepe a maime,

As to be cast forth in the common ayre

Haue I deserued at your Highnesse hands.

The Language I haue learn'd these forty yeares

(My natiue English) now I must forgo,

And now my tongues vse is to me no more,

Then an vnstringed Vyall, or a Harpe,

Or like a cunning Instrument cas'd vp,

Or being open, put into his hands

That knowes no touch to tune the harmony.

Within my mouth you haue engaol'd my tongue,

Doubly percullist with my teeth and lippes,

And dull, vnfeeling, barren ignorance,

Is made my Gaoler to attend on me:

I am too old to fawne vpon a Nurse,

Too farre in yeeres to be a pupill now:

What is thy sentence then, but speechlesse death,

Which robs my tongue from breathing natiue breath?

  Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate,

After our sentence, plaining comes too late

   Mow. Then thus I turne me from my countries light

To dwell in solemne shades of endlesse night

   Ric. Returne againe, and take an oath with thee,

Lay on our Royall sword, your banisht hands;

Sweare by the duty that you owe to heauen

(Our part therein we banish with your selues)

To keepe the Oath that we administer:

You neuer shall (so helpe you Truth, and Heauen)

Embrace each others loue in banishment,

Nor euer looke vpon each others face,

Nor euer write, regreete, or reconcile

This lowring tempest of your home-bred hate,

Nor euer by aduised purpose meete,

To plot, contriue, or complot any ill,

'Gainst Vs, our State, our Subiects, or our Land

Bull. I sweare

Mow. And I, to keepe all this

   Bul. Norfolke, so fare, as to mine enemie,

By this time (had the King permitted vs)

One of our soules had wandred in the ayre,

Banish'd this fraile sepulchre of our flesh,

As now our flesh is banish'd from this Land.

Confesse thy Treasons, ere thou flye this Realme,

Since thou hast farre to go, beare not along

The clogging burthen of a guilty soule

   Mow. No Bullingbroke: If euer I were Traitor,

My name be blotted from the booke of Life,

And I from heauen banish'd, as from hence:

But what thou art, heauen, thou, and I do know,

And all too soone (I feare) the King shall rue.

Farewell (my Liege) now no way can I stray,

Saue backe to England, all the worlds my way.

Enter.

  Rich. Vncle, euen in the glasses of thine eyes

I see thy greeued heart: thy sad aspect,

Hath from the number of his banish'd yeares

Pluck'd foure away: Six frozen Winters spent,

Returne with welcome home, from banishment

   Bul. How long a time lyes in one little word:

Foure lagging Winters, and foure wanton springs

End in a word, such is the breath of Kings

   Gaunt. I thanke my Liege, that in regard of me

He shortens foure yeares of my sonnes exile:

But little vantage shall I reape thereby.

For ere the sixe yeares that he hath to spend

Can change their Moones, and bring their times about,

My oyle-dride Lampe, and time-bewasted light

Shall be extinct with age, and endlesse night:

My inch of Taper, will be burnt, and done,

And blindfold death, not let me see my sonne

Rich. Why Vncle, thou hast many yeeres to liue

   Gaunt. But not a minute (King) that thou canst giue;

Shorten my dayes thou canst with sudden sorow,

And plucke nights from me, but not lend a morrow:

Thou canst helpe time to furrow me with age,

But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage:

Thy word is currant with him, for my death,

But dead, thy kingdome cannot buy my breath

   Ric. Thy sonne is banish'd vpon good aduice,

Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gaue,

Why at our Iustice seem'st thou then to lowre?

  Gau. Things sweet to tast, proue in digestion sowre:

You vrg'd me as a Iudge, but I had rather

You would haue bid me argue like a Father.

Alas, I look'd when some of you should say,

I was too strict to make mine owne away:

But you gaue leaue to my vnwilling tong,

Against my will, to do my selfe this wrong

   Rich. Cosine farewell: and Vncle bid him so:

Six yeares we banish him, and he shall go.

Flourish.

  Au. Cosine farewell: what presence must not know

From where you do remaine, let paper show

   Mar. My Lord, no leaue take I, for I will ride

As farre as land will let me, by your side

   Gaunt. Oh to what purpose dost thou hord thy words,

That thou returnst no greeting to thy friends?

  Bull. I haue too few to take my leaue of you,

When the tongues office should be prodigall,

To breath th' abundant dolour of the heart

Gau. Thy greefe is but thy absence for a time

Bull. Ioy absent, greefe is present for that time

   Gau. What is sixe Winters, they are quickely gone?

  Bul. To men in ioy, but greefe makes one houre ten

Gau. Call it a trauell that thou tak'st for pleasure

   Bul. My heart will sigh, when I miscall it so,

Which findes it an inforced Pilgrimage

   Gau. The sullen passage of thy weary steppes

Esteeme a soyle, wherein thou art to set

The precious Iewell of thy home returne

   Bul. Oh who can hold a fire in his hand

By thinking on the frostie Caucasus?

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,

By bare imagination of a Feast?

Or Wallow naked in December snow

By thinking on fantasticke summers heate?

Oh no, the apprehension of the good

Giues but the greater feeling to the worse:

Fell sorrowes tooth, doth euer ranckle more

Then when it bites, but lanceth not the sore

   Gau. Come, come (my son) Ile bring thee on thy way

Had I thy youth, and cause, I would not stay

   Bul. Then Englands ground farewell: sweet soil adieu,

My Mother, and my Nurse, which beares me yet:

Where ere I wander, boast of this I can,

Though banish'd, yet a true-borne Englishman.