King Henry IV, Part 2. Уильям Шекспир

Чтение книги онлайн.

          Even to the dullest peasant in his camp —

          Being bruited once, took fire and heat away

          From the best-temper'd courage in his troops;

          For from his metal was his party steeled;

          Which once in him abated, all the rest

          Turn'd on themselves, like dull and heavy lead.

          And as the thing that's heavy in itself

          Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed,

          So did our men, heavy in Hotspur's loss,

          Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear

          That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim

          Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety,

          Fly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester

          Too soon ta'en prisoner; and that furious Scot,

          The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword

          Had three times slain th' appearance of the King,

          Gan vail his stomach and did grace the shame

          Of those that turn'd their backs, and in his flight,

          Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all

          Is that the King hath won, and hath sent out

          A speedy power to encounter you, my lord,

          Under the conduct of young Lancaster

          And Westmoreland. This is the news at full.

        NORTHUMBERLAND. For this I shall have time enough to mourn.

          In poison there is physic; and these news,

          Having been well, that would have made me sick,

          Being sick, have in some measure made me well;

          And as the wretch whose fever-weak'ned joints,

          Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life,

          Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire

          Out of his keeper's arms, even so my limbs,

          Weak'ned with grief, being now enrag'd with grief,

          Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch!

          A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel

          Must glove this hand; and hence, thou sickly coif!

          Thou art a guard too wanton for the head

          Which princes, flesh'd with conquest, aim to hit.

          Now bind my brows with iron; and approach

          The ragged'st hour that time and spite dare bring

          To frown upon th' enrag'd Northumberland!

          Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not Nature's hand

          Keep the wild flood confin'd! Let order die!

          And let this world no longer be a stage

          To feed contention in a ling'ring act;

          But let one spirit of the first-born Cain

          Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set

          On bloody courses, the rude scene may end

          And darkness be the burier of the dead!

        LORD BARDOLPH. This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord.

        MORTON. Sweet Earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.

          The lives of all your loving complices

          Lean on your health; the which, if you give o'er

          To stormy passion, must perforce decay.

          You cast th' event of war, my noble lord,

          And summ'd the account of chance before you said

          'Let us make head.' It was your pre-surmise

          That in the dole of blows your son might drop.

          You knew he walk'd o'er perils on an edge,

          More likely to fall in than to get o'er;

          You were advis'd his flesh was capable

          Of wounds and scars, and that his forward spirit

          Would lift him where most trade of danger rang'd;

          Yet did you say 'Go forth'; and none of this,

          Though strongly apprehended, could restrain

          The stiff-borne action. What hath then befall'n,

          Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth

          More than that being which was like to be?

        LORD BARDOLPH. We all that are engaged to this loss

          Knew that we ventured on such dangerous seas

          That if we wrought out life 'twas ten to one;

          And yet we ventur'd, for the gain propos'd

          Chok'd the respect of likely peril fear'd;

          And since we are o'erset, venture again.

          Come, we will put forth, body and goods.

        MORTON. 'Tis more than time. And, my most noble lord,

          I hear for certain, and dare speak the truth:

          The gentle Archbishop of York is up

          With well-appointed pow'rs. He is a man

          Who with a double surety binds his followers.

          My lord your son had only but the corpse,

          But shadows and the shows of men, to fight;

          For that same word 'rebellion' did divide

          The action of their bodies from their souls;

          And they did fight with queasiness, constrain'd,

          As men drink potions; that their weapons only

          Seem'd on our side, but for their spirits and souls

          This word 'rebellion' – it had froze them up,

          As fish are in a pond. But now the Bishop

          Turns insurrection to religion.

          Suppos'd sincere and holy in his thoughts,

          He's follow'd both with body and with mind;

          And doth enlarge his rising with the blood

          Of fair King Richard, scrap'd from Pomfret stones;

          Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause;

          Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land,

          Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke;

          And more and less do flock to follow him.

        NORTHUMBERLAND. I knew of this before; but, to speak truth,

          This present grief had wip'd it from my mind.

          Go in with me; and counsel every man

          The СКАЧАТЬ