The First Part of King Henry the Fourth. Уильям Шекспир

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        Hot. An if the devil come and roar for them,

          I will not send them. I will after straight

          And tell him so; for I will else my heart,

          Albeit I make a hazard of my head.

        North. What, drunk with choler? Stay, and pause awhile.

          Here comes your uncle.

        Hot. Speak of Mortimer?

          Zounds, I will speak of him, and let my soul

          Want mercy if I do not join with him!

          Yea, on his part I'll empty all these veins,

          And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust,

          But I will lift the downtrod Mortimer

          As high in the air as this unthankful king,

          As this ingrate and cank'red Bolingbroke.

        North. Brother, the King hath made your nephew mad.

        Wor. Who struck this heat up after I was gone?

        Hot. He will (forsooth) have all my prisoners;

          And when I urg'd the ransom once again

          Of my wive's brother, then his cheek look'd pale,

          And on my face he turn'd an eye of death,

          Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.

        Wor. I cannot blame him. Was not he proclaim'd

          By Richard that dead is, the next of blood?

        North. He was; I heard the proclamation.

          And then it was when the unhappy King

          (Whose wrongs in us God pardon!) did set forth

          Upon his Irish expedition;

          From whence he intercepted did return

          To be depos'd, and shortly murdered.

        Wor. And for whose death we in the world's wide mouth

          Live scandaliz'd and foully spoken of.

        Hot. But soft, I pray you. Did King Richard then

          Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer

          Heir to the crown?

        North. He did; myself did hear it.

        Hot. Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king,

          That wish'd him on the barren mountains starve.

          But shall it be that you, that set the crown

          Upon the head of this forgetful man,

          And for his sake wear the detested blot

          Of murtherous subornation- shall it be

          That you a world of curses undergo,

          Being the agents or base second means,

          The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?

          O, pardon me that I descend so low

          To show the line and the predicament

          Wherein you range under this subtile king!

          Shall it for shame be spoken in these days,

          Or fill up chronicles in time to come,

          That men of your nobility and power

          Did gage them both in an unjust behalf

          (As both of you, God pardon it! have done)

          To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,

          And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?

          And shall it in more shame be further spoken

          That you are fool'd, discarded, and shook off

          By him for whom these shames ye underwent?

          No! yet time serves wherein you may redeem

          Your banish'd honours and restore yourselves

          Into the good thoughts of the world again;

          Revenge the jeering and disdain'd contempt

          Of this proud king, who studies day and night

          To answer all the debt he owes to you

          Even with the bloody payment of your deaths.

          Therefore I say-

        Wor. Peace, cousin, say no more;

          And now, I will unclasp a secret book,

          And to your quick-conceiving discontents

          I'll read you matter deep and dangerous,

          As full of peril and adventurous spirit

          As to o'erwalk a current roaring loud

          On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.

        Hot. If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim!

          Send danger from the east unto the west,

          So honour cross it from the north to south,

          And let them grapple. O, the blood more stirs

          To rouse a lion than to start a hare!

        North. Imagination of some great exploit

          Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.

        Hot. By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap

          To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac'd moon,

          Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

          Where fadom line could never touch the ground,

          And pluck up drowned honour by the locks,

          So he that doth redeem her thence might wear

          Without corrival all her dignities;

          But out upon this half-fac'd fellowship!

        Wor. He apprehends a world of figures here,

          But not the form of what he should attend.

          Good cousin, give me audience for a while.

        Hot. I cry you mercy.

        Wor. Those same noble Scots

          That are your prisoners-

        Hot. I'll keep them all.

          By God, he shall not have a Scot of them!

          No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not.

          I'll keep them, by this hand!

        Wor. You start away.

          And lend no ear unto my purposes.

          Those prisoners you shall keep.

        Hot. Nay, I will! That is flat!

          He said he would not ransom Mortimer,

          Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer,

          But I will find him when he lies asleep,

          And in his ear I'll holloa 'Mortimer.'

          Nay;

          I'll СКАЧАТЬ