King John. Уильям Шекспир

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          A foot of honour better than I was;

          But many a many foot of land the worse.

          Well, now can I make any Joan a lady.

          'Good den, Sir Richard!'-'God-a-mercy, fellow!'

          And if his name be George, I'll call him Peter;

          For new-made honour doth forget men's names:

          'Tis too respective and too sociable

          For your conversion. Now your traveller,

          He and his toothpick at my worship's mess-

          And when my knightly stomach is suffic'd,

          Why then I suck my teeth and catechize

          My picked man of countries: 'My dear sir,'

          Thus leaning on mine elbow I begin

          'I shall beseech you'-That is question now;

          And then comes answer like an Absey book:

          'O sir,' says answer 'at your best command,

          At your employment, at your service, sir!'

          'No, sir,' says question 'I, sweet sir, at yours.'

          And so, ere answer knows what question would,

          Saving in dialogue of compliment,

          And talking of the Alps and Apennines,

          The Pyrenean and the river Po-

          It draws toward supper in conclusion so.

          But this is worshipful society,

          And fits the mounting spirit like myself;

          For he is but a bastard to the time

          That doth not smack of observation-

          And so am I, whether I smack or no;

          And not alone in habit and device,

          Exterior form, outward accoutrement,

          But from the inward motion to deliver

          Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age's tooth;

          Which, though I will not practise to deceive,

          Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn;

          For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising.

          But who comes in such haste in riding-robes?

          What woman-post is this? Hath she no husband

          That will take pains to blow a horn before her?

          O me, 'tis my mother! How now, good lady!

          What brings you here to court so hastily?

        LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Where is that slave, thy brother?

            Where is he

          That holds in chase mine honour up and down?

        BASTARD. My brother Robert, old Sir Robert's son?

          Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man?

          Is it Sir Robert's son that you seek so?

        LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Sir Robert's son! Ay, thou unreverend boy,

          Sir Robert's son! Why scorn'st thou at Sir Robert?

          He is Sir Robert's son, and so art thou.

        BASTARD. James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave awhile?

        GURNEY. Good leave, good Philip.

        BASTARD. Philip-Sparrow! James,

          There's toys abroad-anon I'll tell thee more.

          Madam, I was not old Sir Robert's son;

          Sir Robert might have eat his part in me

          Upon Good Friday, and ne'er broke his fast.

          Sir Robert could do: well-marry, to confess-

          Could he get me? Sir Robert could not do it:

          We know his handiwork. Therefore, good mother,

          To whom am I beholding for these limbs?

          Sir Robert never holp to make this leg.

        LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast thou conspired with thy brother too,

          That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour?

          What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?

        BASTARD. Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like.

          What! I am dubb'd; I have it on my shoulder.

          But, mother, I am not Sir Robert's son:

          I have disclaim'd Sir Robert and my land;

          Legitimation, name, and all is gone.

          Then, good my mother, let me know my father-

          Some proper man, I hope. Who was it, mother?

        LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge?

        BASTARD. As faithfully as I deny the devil.

        LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. King Richard Coeur-de-lion was thy father.

          By long and vehement suit I was seduc'd

          To make room for him in my husband's bed.

          Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge!

          Thou art the issue of my dear offence,

          Which was so strongly urg'd past my defence.

        BASTARD. Now, by this light, were I to get again,

          Madam, I would not wish a better father.

          Some sins do bear their privilege on earth,

          And so doth yours: your fault was not your folly;

          Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose,

          Subjected tribute to commanding love,

          Against whose fury and unmatched force

          The aweless lion could not wage the fight

          Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand.

          He that perforce robs lions of their hearts

          May easily win a woman's. Ay, my mother,

          With all my heart I thank thee for my father!

          Who lives and dares but say thou didst not well

          When I was got, I'll send his soul to hell.

          Come, lady, I will show thee to my kin;

          And they shall say when Richard me begot,

          If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin.

          Who says it was, he lies; I say 'twas not.