Mary Stuart. Friedrich von Schiller

Чтение книги онлайн.

         Talk not, my lady, of the dreadful right

         Of power: 'tis seldom on the prisoner's side.

         I am the weak, she is the mighty one:

         'Tis well, my lord; let her, then, use her power;

         Let her destroy me; let me bleed, that she

         May live secure; but let her, then, confess

         That she hath exercised her power alone,

         And not contaminate the name of justice.

         Let her not borrow from the laws the sword

         To rid her of her hated enemy;

         Let her not clothe in this religious garb

         The bloody daring of licentious might;

         Let not these juggling tricks deceive the world.

         Though she may murder me, she cannot judge me:

         Let her no longer strive to join the fruits

         Of vice with virtue's fair and angel show;

         But let her dare to seem the thing she is.

         She scorns us, she defies us! will defy us,

         Even at the scaffold's foot. This haughty heart

         Is not to be subdued. Say, did the sentence

         Surprise her? Did you see her shed one tear,

         Or even change her color? She disdains

         To make appeal to our compassion. Well

         She knows the wavering mind of England's queen.

         Our apprehensions make her bold.

                          My lord,

         Take the pretext away which buoys it up,

         And you shall see this proud defiance fail

         That very moment. I must say, my lord,

         Irregularities have been allowed

         In these proceedings; Babington and Ballard

         Should have been brought, with her two secretaries,

         Before her, face to face.

                       No, Paulet, no.

         That was not to be risked; her influence

         Upon the human heart is too supreme;

         Too strong the female empire of her tears.

         Her secretary, Curl, if brought before her,

         And called upon to speak the weighty word

         On which her life depends, would straight shrink back

         And fearfully revoke his own confession.

         Then England's enemies will fill the world

         With evil rumors; and the formal pomp

         Of these proceedings to the minds of all

         Will only signalize an act of outrage.

         That is the greatest torment of our queen,

         [That she can never 'scape the blame. Oh God!]

         Had but this lovely mischief died before

         She set her faithless foot on English ground.

         Amen, say I!

                Had sickness but consumed her!

         England had been secured from such misfortune.

         And yet, if she had died in nature's course,

         The world would still have called us murderers.

         'Tis true, the world will think, despite of us,

         Whate'er it list.

                   Yet could it not be proved?

         And it would make less noise.

                         Why, let it make

         What noise it may. It is not clamorous blame,

         'Tis righteous censure only which can wound.

         We know that holy justice cannot 'scape

         The voice of censure; and the public cry

         Is ever on the side of the unhappy:

         Envy pursues the laurelled conqueror;

         The sword of justice, which adorns the man,

         Is hateful in a woman's hand; the world

         Will give no credit to a woman's justice

         If woman be the victim. Vain that we,

         The judges, spoke what conscience dictated;

         She has the royal privilege of mercy;

         She must exert it: 'twere not to be borne,

         Should she let justice take its full career.

         СКАЧАТЬ