Беспокойное бессмертие: 450 лет со дня рождения Уильяма Шекспира (Честертон, Грин) - страница 104

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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.

Richard

I did not kill your husband.


Anne

Why, then he is alive.


Richard

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.

Richard

I was provokèd by her sland’rous tongue,
That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.

Anne

Thou wast provokèd by thy bloody mind,
Which never dream’st on aught but butcheries.
Didst thou not kill this king?

Richard

I grant ye.


Anne

Dost grant me, hedgehog? Then God grant me too
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