Mary Stuart. Фридрих Шиллер

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СКАЧАТЬ And gives to Anjou's duke her throne and hand.

       MARY.

       Will not the King of Spain rise up in arms?

       MORTIMER.

       She fears not a collected world in arms?

       If with her people she remains at peace.

       MARY.

       Were this a spectacle for British eyes?

       MORTIMER.

       This land, my queen, has, in these latter days,

       Seen many a royal woman from the throne

       Descend and mount the scaffold:—her own mother

       And Catherine Howard trod this fatal path;

       And was not Lady Grey a crowned head?

       MARY (after a pause).

       No, Mortimer, vain fears have blinded you;

       'Tis but the honest care of your true heart,

       Which conjures up these empty apprehensions.

       It is not, sir, the scaffold that I fear:

       There are so many still and secret means

       By which her majesty of England may

       Set all my claims to rest. Oh, trust me, ere

       An executioner is found for me,

       Assassins will be hired to do their work.

       'Tis that which makes me tremble, Mortimer:

       I never lift the goblet to my lips

       Without an inward shuddering, lest the draught

       May have been mingled by my sister's love.

       MORTIMER.

       No:—neither open or disguised murder

       Shall e'er prevail against you:—fear no more;

       All is prepared;—twelve nobles of the land

       Are my confederates, and have pledged to-day,

       Upon the sacrament, their faith to free you,

       With dauntless arm, from this captivity.

       Count Aubespine, the French ambassador,

       Knows of our plot, and offers his assistance:

       'Tis in his palace that we hold our meetings.

       NARY.

       You make me tremble, sir, but not for joy!

       An evil boding penetrates my heart.

       Know you, then, what you risk? Are you not scared

       By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads,

       Set up as warnings upon London's bridge?

       Nor by the ruin of those many victims

       Who have, in such attempts, found certain death,

       And only made my chains the heavier?

       Fly hence, deluded, most unhappy youth!

       Fly, if there yet be time for you, before

       That crafty spy, Lord Burleigh, track your schemes,

       And mix his traitors in your secret plots.

       Fly hence:—as yet, success hath never smiled

       On Mary Stuart's champions.

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