Уильям Шекспир - King Richard II стр 2.

  GAUNT. Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's blood
    Doth more solicit me than your exclaims
    To stir against the butchers of his life!
    But since correction lieth in those hands
    Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
    Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;
    Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth,
    Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.
  DUCHESS. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
    Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
    Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
    Were as seven vials of his sacred blood,
    Or seven fair branches springing from one root.
    Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,
    Some of those branches by the Destinies cut;
    But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester,
    One vial full of Edward's sacred blood,
    One flourishing branch of his most royal root,
    Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;
    Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all faded,
    By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe.
    Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! That bed, that womb,
    That mettle, that self mould, that fashion'd thee,
    Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest,
    Yet art thou slain in him. Thou dost consent
    In some large measure to thy father's death
    In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,
    Who was the model of thy father's life.
    Call it not patience, Gaunt-it is despair;
    In suff'ring thus thy brother to be slaught'red,
    Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life,
    Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee.
    That which in mean men we entitle patience
    Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
    What shall I say? To safeguard thine own life
    The best way is to venge my Gloucester's death.
  GAUNT. God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute,
    His deputy anointed in His sight,
    Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully,
    Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift
    An angry arm against His minister.
  DUCHESS. Where then, alas, may I complain myself?
  GAUNT. To God, the widow's champion and defence.
  DUCHESS. Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.
    Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold
    Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
    O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear,
    That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast!
    Or, if misfortune miss the first career,
    Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom
    That they may break his foaming courser's back
    And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
    A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!
    Farewell, old Gaunt; thy sometimes brother's wife,
    With her companion, Grief, must end her life.
  GAUNT. Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry.
    As much good stay with thee as go with me!
  DUCHESS. Yet one word more- grief boundeth where it falls,
    Not with the empty hollowness, but weight.
    I take my leave before I have begun,
    For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.
    Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York.
    Lo, this is all- nay, yet depart not so;
    Though this be all, do not so quickly go;
    I shall remember more. Bid him- ah, what? -
    With all good speed at Plashy visit me.
    Alack, and what shall good old York there see
    But empty lodgings and unfurnish'd walls,
    Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?
    And what hear there for welcome but my groans?
    Therefore commend me; let him not come there
    To seek out sorrow that dwells every where.
    Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die;
    The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Exeunt]

  MARSHAL. My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd?
  AUMERLE. Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in.
  MARSHAL. The Duke of Norfolk, spightfully and bold,
    Stays but the summons of the appelant's trumpet.
  AUMERLE. Why then, the champions are prepar'd, and stay
    For nothing but his Majesty's approach.

  KING RICHARD. Marshal, demand of yonder champion
    The cause of his arrival here in arms;
    Ask him his name; and orderly proceed
    To swear him in the justice of his cause.
  MARSHAL. In God's name and the King's, say who thou art,
    And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms;
    Against what man thou com'st, and what thy quarrel.
    Speak truly on thy knighthood and thy oath;
    As so defend thee heaven and thy valour!
  MOWBRAY. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk;
    Who hither come engaged by my oath-
    Which God defend a knight should violate! -
    Both to defend my loyalty and truth
    To God, my King, and my succeeding issue,
    Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me;
    And, by the grace of God and this mine arm,
    To prove him, in defending of myself,
    A traitor to my God, my King, and me.
    And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

  KING RICHARD. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms,
    Both who he is and why he cometh hither
    Thus plated in habiliments of war;
    And formally, according to our law,
    Depose him in the justice of his cause.
  MARSHAL. What is thy name? and wherefore com'st thou hither
    Before King Richard in his royal lists?
    Against whom comest thou? and what's thy quarrel?
    Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!
  BOLINGBROKE. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
    Am I; who ready here do stand in arms
    To prove, by God's grace and my body's valour,
    In lists on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
    That he is a traitor, foul and dangerous,
    To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me.
    And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!
  MARSHAL. On pain of death, no person be so bold
    Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists,
    Except the Marshal and such officers
    Appointed to direct these fair designs.
  BOLINGBROKE. Lord Marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's hand,
    And bow my knee before his Majesty;
    For Mowbray and myself are like two men
    That vow a long and weary pilgrimage.
    Then let us take a ceremonious leave
    And loving farewell of our several friends.
  MARSHAL. The appellant in all duty greets your Highness,
    And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave.
  KING RICHARD. We will descend and fold him in our arms.
    Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right,
    So be thy fortune in this royal fight!
    Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,
    Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.
  BOLINGBROKE. O, let no noble eye profane a tear
    For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear.
    As confident as is the falcon's flight
    Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.
    My loving lord, I take my leave of you;
    Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle;
    Not sick, although I have to do with death,
    But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.
    Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet
    The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.
    O thou, the earthly author of my blood,
    Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,
    Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up
    To reach at victory above my head,
    Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers,
    And with thy blessings steel my lance's point,
    That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat
    And furbish new the name of John o' Gaunt,
    Even in the lusty haviour of his son.
  GAUNT. God in thy good cause make thee prosperous!
    Be swift like lightning in the execution,
    And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
    Fall like amazing thunder on the casque
    Of thy adverse pernicious enemy.
    Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant, and live.
  BOLINGBROKE. Mine innocence and Saint George to thrive!
  MOWBRAY. However God or fortune cast my lot,
    There lives or dies, true to King Richard's throne,
    A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.
    Never did captive with a freer heart
    Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace
    His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement,
    More than my dancing soul doth celebrate
    This feast of battle with mine adversary.
    Most mighty liege, and my companion peers,
    Take from my mouth the wish of happy years.
    As gentle and as jocund as to jest
    Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breast.
  KING RICHARD. Farewell, my lord, securely I espy
    Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.
    Order the trial, Marshal, and begin.
  MARSHAL. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
    Receive thy lance; and God defend the right!
  BOLINGBROKE. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen.
  MARSHAL. [To an officer] Go bear this lance to Thomas,
      Duke of Norfolk.
  FIRST HERALD. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
    Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself,
    On pain to be found false and recreant,
    To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
    A traitor to his God, his King, and him;
    And dares him to set forward to the fight.
  SECOND HERALD. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
    On pain to be found false and recreant,
    Both to defend himself, and to approve
    Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
    To God, his sovereign, and to him disloyal,
    Courageously and with a free desire
    Attending but the signal to begin.
  MARSHAL. Sound trumpets; and set forward, combatants.

    Stay, the King hath thrown his warder down.
  KING RICHARD. Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,
    And both return back to their chairs again.
    Withdraw with us; and let the trumpets sound
    While we return these dukes what we decree.