Читать книгу The Third Part of King Henry the Sixth - Уильям Шекспир, William Szekspir, the Simon Studio - Страница 6

  EDWARD. I wonder how our princely father scap'd,

    Or whether he be scap'd away or no

    From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit.

    Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news;

    Had he been slain, we should have heard the news;

    Or had he scap'd, methinks we should have heard

    The happy tidings of his good escape.

    How fares my brother? Why is he so sad?

  RICHARD. I cannot joy until I be resolv'd

    Where our right valiant father is become.

    I saw him in the battle range about,

    And watch'd him how he singled Clifford forth.

    Methought he bore him in the thickest troop

    As doth a lion in a herd of neat;

    Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs,

    Who having pinch'd a few and made them cry,

    The rest stand all aloof and bark at him.

    So far'd our father with his enemies;

    So fled his enemies my warlike father.

    Methinks 'tis prize enough to be his son.

    See how the morning opes her golden gates

    And takes her farewell of the glorious sun.

    How well resembles it the prime of youth,

    Trimm'd like a younker prancing to his love!

  EDWARD. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?

  RICHARD. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;

    Not separated with the racking clouds,

    But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky.

    See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,

    As if they vow'd some league inviolable.

    Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.

    In this the heaven figures some event.

  EDWARD. 'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.

    I think it cites us, brother, to the field,

    That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,

    Each one already blazing by our meeds,

    Should notwithstanding join our lights together

    And overshine the earth, as this the world.

    Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear

    Upon my target three fair shining suns.

  RICHARD. Nay, bear three daughters- by your leave I speak it,

    You love the breeder better than the male.

    But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell

    Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

  MESSENGER. Ah, one that was a woeful looker-on

    When as the noble Duke of York was slain,

    Your princely father and my loving lord!

  EDWARD. O, speak no more! for I have heard too much.

  RICHARD. Say how he died, for I will hear it all.

  MESSENGER. Environed he was with many foes,

    And stood against them as the hope of Troy

    Against the Greeks that would have ent'red Troy.

    But Hercules himself must yield to odds;

    And many strokes, though with a little axe,

    Hews down and fells the hardest-timber'd oak.

    By many hands your father was subdu'd;

    But only slaught'red by the ireful arm

    Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen,

    Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high despite,

    Laugh'd in his face; and when with grief he wept,

    The ruthless Queen gave him to dry his cheeks

    A napkin steeped in the harmless blood

    Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain;

    And after many scorns, many foul taunts,

    They took his head, and on the gates of York

    They set the same; and there it doth remain,

    The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd.

  EDWARD. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,

    Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.

    O Clifford, boist'rous Clifford, thou hast slain

    The flow'r of Europe for his chivalry;

    And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him,

    For hand to hand he would have vanquish'd thee.

    Now my soul's palace is become a prison.

    Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body

    Might in the ground be closed up in rest!

    For never henceforth shall I joy again;

    Never, O never, shall I see more joy.

  RICHARD. I cannot weep, for all my body's moisture

    Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart;

    Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden,

    For self-same wind that I should speak withal

    Is kindling coals that fires all my breast,

    And burns me up with flames that tears would quench.

    To weep is to make less the depth of grief.

    Tears then for babes; blows and revenge for me!

    Richard, I bear thy name; I'll venge thy death,

    Or die renowned by attempting it.

  EDWARD. His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;

    His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

  RICHARD. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,

    Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun;

    For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom, say:

    Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.

  WARWICK. How now, fair lords! What fare? What news abroad?

  RICHARD. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount

    Our baleful news and at each word's deliverance

    Stab poinards in our flesh till all were told,

    The words would add more anguish than the wounds.

    O valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain!

  EDWARD. O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet

    Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption

    Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

  WARWICK. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears;

    And now, to add more measure to your woes,

    I come to tell you things sith then befall'n.

    After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,

    Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp,

    Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,

    Were brought me of your loss and his depart.

    I, then in London, keeper of the King,

    Muster'd my soldiers, gathered flocks of friends,

    And very well appointed, as I thought,

    March'd toward Saint Albans to intercept the Queen,

    Bearing the King in my behalf along;

    For by my scouts I was advertised

    That she was coming with a full intent

    To dash our late decree in parliament

    Touching King Henry's oath and your succession.

    Short tale to make- we at Saint Albans met,

    Our battles join'd, and both sides fiercely fought;

    But whether 'twas the coldness of the King,

    Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen,

    That robb'd my soldiers of their heated spleen,

    Or whether 'twas report of her success,

    Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigour,

    Who thunders to his captives blood and death,

    I cannot judge; but, to conclude with truth,

    Their weapons like to lightning came and went:

    Our soldiers', like the night-owl's lazy flight

    Or like an idle thresher with a flail,

    Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.

    I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause,

    With promise of high pay and great rewards,

    But all in vain; they had no heart to fight,

    And we in them no hope to win the day;

    So that we fled: the King unto the Queen;

    Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,

    In haste post-haste are come to join with you;

    For in the marches here we heard you were

    Making another head to fight again.