Тамара Казавчинская - Беспокойное бессмертие: 450 лет со дня рождения Уильяма Шекспира

You may deny that you were not the mean
Of my Lord Hastings’ late imprisonment.

She may, my lord, for —

She may, Lord Rivers, why, who knows not so?
She may do more, sir, than denying that.
She may help you to many fair preferments,
And then deny her aiding hand therein,
And lay those honours on your high desert.
What may she not? She may, ay, marry, may she.

What, marry, may she? Marry with a king,
A bachelor, a handsome stripling too.
I wis your grandam had a worser match.

My lord of Gloucester, I have too long borne
Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs.
By heaven, I will acquaint his majesty
Of those gross taunts that oft I have endured.
I had rather be a country servant maid
Than a great queen, with this condition,
To be so baited, scorned, and stormèd at.
Small joy have I in being England’s queen.

And lessened be that small, God I beseech him.
Thy honour, state and seat is due to me.

What? Threat you me with telling of the king?
I will avouch’t in presence of the king.
I dare adventure to be sent to th’Tower.
ʼTis time to speak. My pains are quite forgot.

Out, devil. I do remember them too well.
Thou kill’dst my husband, Henry, in the Tower,
And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury.

Ere you were queen, ay, or your husband king,
I was a pack-horse in his great affairs,
A weeder-out of his proud adversaries,
A liberal rewarder of his friends.
To royalise his blood I spent mine own.

In all which time, you and your husband Grey
Were factious for the house of Lancaster,
And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your husband
In Margaret’s battle at Saint Alban’s slain?
Let me put in your minds, if you forget,
What you have been ere this, and what you are;
Withal, what I have been, and what I am.

Poor Clarence did forsake his father Warwick,
Ay, and forswore himself, which Jesu pardon.

To fight on Edward’s party for the crown.
And for his meed, poor lord, he is mewed up.
I would to God my heart were flint, like Edward’s,
Or Edward’s soft and pitiful, like mine.
I am too childish-foolish for this world.

Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave the world,
Thou cacodemon. There thy kingdom is.

My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy days
Which here you urge to prove us enemies,
We followed then our lord, our sovereign king.
So should we you, if you should be our king.

If I should be? I had rather be a pedlar.
Far be it from my heart, the thought thereof.

As little joy, my lord, as you suppose
You should enjoy were you this country’s king.
As little joy may you suppose in me
That I enjoy, being the queen thereof.

A little joy enjoys the queen thereof,
For I am she, and altogether joyless.
I can no longer hold me patient —

Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out
In sharing that which you have pilled from me.
Which of you trembles not that looks on me?
If not that I am queen, you bow like subjects,
Yet that by you deposed, you quake like rebels.
Ah, gentle villain, do not turn away.

But repetition of what thou hast marred,
That will I make before I let thee go.

I was. But I do find more pain in banishment
Than death can yield me here by my abode.
A husband and a son thou ow’st to me —
And thou a kingdom — all of you allegiance.
This sorrow that I have by right is yours,
And all the pleasures you usurp are mine.

The curse my noble father laid on thee
When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper
And with thy scorns drew’st rivers from his eyes,
And then to dry them gav’st the duke a clout
Steeped in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland —
His curses then, from bitterness of soul
Denounced against thee, are all fall’n upon thee,
And God, not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed.

O, ’twas the foulest deed to slay that babe,
And the most merciless that e’er was heard of.

What? Were you snarling all before I came,
Ready to catch each other by the throat,
And turn you all your hatred now on me?
Did York’s dread curse prevail so much with heaven
That Henry’s death, my lovely Edward’s death,
Their kingdom’s loss, my woeful banishment,
Should all but answer for that peevish brat?
Can curses pierce the clouds, and enter heaven?
Why, then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses.
Though not by war, by surfeit die your king,
As ours by murder to make him a king.
Edward thy son, that now is Prince of Wales,
For Edward our son, that was Prince of Wales,
Die in his youth by like untimely violence.
Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen,
Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self.
Long mayst thou live to wail thy children’s death
And see another, as I see thee now,
Decked in thy rights, as thou art stalled in mine.
Long die thy happy days before thy death,
And after many lengthened hours of grief,
Die neither mother, wife, nor England’s queen.
Rivers and Dorset, you were standers-by,
And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son
Was stabbed with bloody daggers. God I pray him,
That none of you may live his natural age,
But by some unlooked accident cut off.

And leave out thee? Stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me.
If heaven have any grievous plague in store
Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,
Oh, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe
And then hurl down their indignation
On thee the troubler of the poor world’s peace.
The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul.
Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv’st,
And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends.
No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,
Unless it be while some tormenting dream
Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils.
Thou elvish-marked, abortive, rooting hog,
Thou that wast sealed in thy nativity
The slave of nature and the son of hell.
Thou slander of thy heavy mother’s womb,
Thou loathèd issue of thy father’s loins,
Thou rag of honour, thou detested —

Margaret.

I cry thee mercy then, for I did think
That thou hadst called me all these bitter names.

Why so I did, but looked for no reply.
Oh, let me make the period to my curse.

Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune,
Why strew’st thou sugar on that bottled spider
Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about?
Fool, fool, thou whet’st a knife to kill thyself.
The time will come that thou shalt wish for me
To help thee curse that poisonous bunch-backed toad.

False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse,
Lest to thy harm thou move our patience.

To serve me well, you all should do me duty,
Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects;
Oh, serve me well and teach yourselves that duty.

Peace, master marquess, you are malapert.
Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current.
Oh, that your young nobility could judge
What ’twere to lose it and be miserable.
They that stand high have many blasts to shake them,
And if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces.

Ay, and much more. But I was born so high.
Our aerie buildeth in the cedar’s top,
And dallies with the wind and scorns the sun.

And turns the sun to shade, alas, alas.
Witness my son, now in the shade of death,
Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath
Hath in eternal darkness folded up.
Your aerie buildeth in our aerie’s nest.
O God that seest it, do not suffer it;
As it was won with blood, lost be it so.

Urge neither charity nor shame to me.
Uncharitably with me have you dealt,
And shamefully my hopes by you are butchered.
My charity is outrage, life my shame,
And in that shame still live my sorrow’s rage.