King Richard II. Уильям Шекспир

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        AUMERLE. Cousin, farewell; what presence must not know,

          From where you do remain let paper show.

        MARSHAL. My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride

          As far as land will let me by your side.

        GAUNT. O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,

          That thou returnest no greeting to thy friends?

        BOLINGBROKE. I have too few to take my leave of you,

          When the tongue's office should be prodigal

          To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.

        GAUNT. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

        BOLINGBROKE. Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

        GAUNT. What is six winters? They are quickly gone.

        BOLINGBROKE. To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.

        GAUNT. Call it a travel that thou tak'st for pleasure.

        BOLINGBROKE. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,

          Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.

        GAUNT. The sullen passage of thy weary steps

          Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set

          The precious jewel of thy home return.

        BOLINGBROKE. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make

          Will but remember me what a deal of world

          I wander from the jewels that I love.

          Must I not serve a long apprenticehood

          To foreign passages; and in the end,

          Having my freedom, boast of nothing else

          But that I was a journeyman to grief?

        GAUNT. All places that the eye of heaven visits

          Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.

          Teach thy necessity to reason thus:

          There is no virtue like necessity.

          Think not the King did banish thee,

          But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit

          Where it perceives it is but faintly home.

          Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour,

          And not the King exil'd thee; or suppose

          Devouring pestilence hangs in our air

          And thou art flying to a fresher clime.

          Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it

          To lie that way thou goest, not whence thou com'st.

          Suppose the singing birds musicians,

          The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew'd,

          The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more

          Than a delightful measure or a dance;

          For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite

          The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

        BOLINGBROKE. O, who can hold a fire in his hand

          By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?

          Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite

          By bare imagination of a feast?

          Or wallow naked in December snow

          By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?

          O, no! the apprehension of the good

          Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.

          Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more

          Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore.

        GAUNT. Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way.

          Had I thy youtli and cause, I would not stay.

        BOLINGBROKE. Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil,

      adieu;

          My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet!

          Where'er I wander, boast of this I can:

          Though banish'd, yet a trueborn English man. [Exeunt]

        KING СКАЧАТЬ