The Tragedy of Titus Andronicus. Уильям Шекспир

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        TITUS. Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds!

          Lo, as the bark that hath discharg'd her fraught

          Returns with precious lading to the bay

          From whence at first she weigh'd her anchorage,

          Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs,

          To re-salute his country with his tears,

          Tears of true joy for his return to Rome.

          Thou great defender of this Capitol,

          Stand gracious to the rites that we intend!

          Romans, of five and twenty valiant sons,

          Half of the number that King Priam had,

          Behold the poor remains, alive and dead!

          These that survive let Rome reward with love;

          These that I bring unto their latest home,

          With burial amongst their ancestors.

          Here Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword.

          Titus, unkind, and careless of thine own,

          Why suffer'st thou thy sons, unburied yet,

          To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx?

          Make way to lay them by their brethren.

          There greet in silence, as the dead are wont,

          And sleep in peace, slain in your country's wars.

          O sacred receptacle of my joys,

          Sweet cell of virtue and nobility,

          How many sons hast thou of mine in store

          That thou wilt never render to me more!

        LUCIUS. Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths,

          That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile

          Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh

          Before this earthy prison of their bones,

          That so the shadows be not unappeas'd,

          Nor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth.

        TITUS. I give him you- the noblest that survives,

          The eldest son of this distressed queen.

        TAMORA. Stay, Roman brethen! Gracious conqueror,

          Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed,

          A mother's tears in passion for her son;

          And if thy sons were ever dear to thee,

          O, think my son to be as dear to me!

          Sufficeth not that we are brought to Rome

          To beautify thy triumphs, and return

          Captive to thee and to thy Roman yoke;

          But must my sons be slaughtered in the streets

          For valiant doings in their country's cause?

          O, if to fight for king and commonweal

          Were piety in thine, it is in these.

          Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood.

          Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods?

          Draw near them then in being merciful.

          Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.

          Thrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son.

        TITUS. Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me.

          These are their brethren, whom your Goths beheld

          Alive and dead; and for their brethren slain

          Religiously they ask a sacrifice.

          To this your son is mark'd, and die he must

          T' appease their groaning shadows that are gone.

        LUCIUS. Away with him, and make a fire straight;

          And with our swords, upon a pile of wood,

          Let's hew his limbs till they be clean consum'd.

        TAMORA. O cruel, irreligious piety!

        CHIRON. Was never Scythia half so barbarous!

        DEMETRIUS. Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome.

          Alarbus goes to rest, and we survive

          To tremble under Titus' threat'ning look.

          Then, madam, stand resolv'd, but hope withal

          The self-same gods that arm'd the Queen of Troy

          With opportunity of sharp revenge

          Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent

          May favour Tamora, the Queen of Goths-

          When Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen-

          To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes.

        LUCIUS. See, lord and father, how we have perform'd

          Our Roman rites: Alarbus' limbs are lopp'd,

          And entrails feed the sacrificing fire,

          Whose smoke like incense doth perfume the sky.

          Remaineth nought but to inter our brethren,

          And with loud 'larums welcome them to Rome.

        TITUS. Let it be so, and let Andronicus

          Make this his latest farewell to their souls.

                       [Sound trumpets and lay the coffin in the tomb]

          In peace and honour rest you here, my sons;

          Rome's readiest champions, repose you here in rest,

          Secure from worldly chances and mishaps!

          Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells,

          Here grow no damned drugs, here are no storms,

          No noise, but silence and eternal sleep.

          In peace and honour rest you here, my sons!

        LAVINIA. In peace and honour live Lord Titus long;

          My noble lord and father, live in fame!

          Lo, at this tomb my tributary tears

          I render for my brethren's obsequies;

          And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy

          Shed on this earth for thy return to Rome.

          O, СКАЧАТЬ