Richard III. Уильям Шекспир

         Riu. What marry may she?

        Ric. What marrie may she? Marrie with a King,

      A Batcheller, and a handsome stripling too,

      Iwis your Grandam had a worser match

         Qu. My Lord of Glouster, I haue too long borne

      Your blunt vpbraidings, and your bitter scoffes:

      By heauen, I will acquaint his Maiestie

      Of those grosse taunts that oft I haue endur'd.

      I had rather be a Countrie seruant maide

      Then a great Queene, with this condition,

      To be so baited, scorn'd, and stormed at,

      Small ioy haue I in being Englands Queene.

      Enter old Queene Margaret.

        Mar. And lesned be that small, God I beseech him,

      Thy honor, state, and seate, is due to me

         Rich. What? threat you me with telling of the King?

      I will auouch't in presence of the King:

      I dare aduenture to be sent to th' Towre.

      'Tis time to speake,

      My paines are quite forgot

         Margaret. Out Diuell,

      I do remember them too well:

      Thou killd'st my Husband Henrie in the Tower,

      And Edward my poore Son, at Tewkesburie

         Rich. Ere you were Queene,

      I, or your Husband King:

      I was a packe-horse in his great affaires:

      A weeder out of his proud Aduersaries,

      A liberall rewarder of his Friends,

      To royalize his blood, I spent mine owne

         Margaret. I and much better blood

      Then his, or thine

         Rich. In all which time, you and your Husband Grey

      Were factious, for the House of Lancaster;

      And Riuers, so were you: Was not your Husband,

      In Margarets Battaile, at Saint Albons, slaine?

      Let me put in your mindes, if you forget

      What you haue beene ere this, and what you are:

      Withall, what I haue beene, and what I am

      Q.M. A murth'rous Villaine, and so still thou art

         Rich. Poore Clarence did forsake his Father Warwicke,

      I, and forswore himselfe (which Iesu pardon.)

        Q.M. Which God reuenge

         Rich. To fight on Edwards partie, for the Crowne,

      And for his meede, poore Lord, he is mewed vp:

      I would to God my heart were Flint, like Edwards,

      Or Edwards soft and pittifull, like mine;

      I am too childish foolish for this World

         Q.M. High thee to Hell for shame, & leaue this World

      Thou Cacodemon, there thy Kingdome is

         Riu. My Lord of Gloster: in those busie dayes,

      Which here you vrge, to proue vs Enemies,

      We follow'd then our Lord, our Soueraigne King,

      So should we you, if you should be our King

         Rich. If I should be? I had rather be a Pedler:

      Farre be it from my heart, the thought thereof

         Qu. As little ioy (my Lord) as you suppose

      You should enioy, were you this Countries King,

      As little ioy you may suppose in me,

      That I enioy, being the Queene thereof

         Q.M. A little ioy enioyes the Queene thereof,

      For I am shee, and altogether ioylesse:

      I can no longer hold me patient.

      Heare me, you wrangling Pyrates, that fall out,

      In sharing that which you haue pill'd from me:

      Which off you trembles not, that lookes on me?

      If not, that I am Queene, you bow like Subiects;

      Yet that by you depos'd, you quake like Rebells.

      Ah gentle Villaine, doe not turne away

         Rich. Foule wrinckled Witch, what mak'st thou in my sight?

        Q.M. But repetition of what thou hast marr'd,

      That will I make, before I let thee goe

         Rich. Wert thou not banished, on paine of death?

        Q.M. I was: but I doe find more paine in banishment,

      Then death can yeeld me here, by my abode.

      A Husband and a Sonne thou ow'st to me,

      And thou a Kingdome; all of you, allegeance:

      This Sorrow that I haue, by right is yours,

      And all the Pleasures you vsurpe, are mine

         Rich. The Curse my Noble Father layd on thee,

      When thou didst Crown his Warlike Brows with Paper,

      And with thy scornes drew'st Riuers from his eyes,

      And then to dry them, gau'st the Duke a Clowt,

      Steep'd in the faultlesse blood of prettie Rutland:

      His Curses then, from bitternesse of Soule,

      Denounc'd against thee, are all falne vpon thee:

      And God, not we, hath plagu'd thy bloody deed

      Qu. So iust is God, to right the innocent

         Hast. O, 'twas the foulest deed to slay that Babe,

      And the most mercilesse, that ere was heard of

      Riu. Tyrants themselues wept when it was reported

      Dors. No man but prophecied reuenge for it

      Buck. Northumberland, then present, wept to see it

         Q.M. What? were you snarling all before I came,

      Ready to catch each other by the throat,

      And turne you all your hatred now on me?

      Did Yorkes dread Curse preuaile so much with Heauen,

      That Henries death, my louely Edwards death,

      Their Kingdomes losse, my wofull Banishment,

      Should all but answer for that peeuish Brat?

      Can Curses pierce the Clouds, and enter Heauen?

      Why then giue way dull Clouds to my quick Curses.

      Though not by Warre, by Surfet dye your King,

      As ours by Murther, to make him a King.

      Edward thy Sonne, that now is Prince of Wales,

      For Edward our Sonne, that was Prince of Wales,

      Dye in his youth, by like vntimely violence.

      Thy