King Richard II. Уильям Шекспир

          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.

          Draw near,

          And list what with our council we have done.

          For that our kingdom's earth should not be soil'd

          With that dear blood which it hath fostered;

          And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect

          Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours' sword;

          And for we think the eagle-winged pride

          Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,

          With rival-hating envy, set on you

          To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle

          Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep;

          Which so rous'd up with boist'rous untun'd drums,

          With harsh-resounding trumpets' dreadful bray,

          And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,

          Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace

          And make us wade even in our kindred's blood-

          Therefore we banish you our territories.

          You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life,

          Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields

          Shall not regreet our fair dominions,

          But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

        BOLINGBROKE. Your will be done. This must my comfort be-

          That sun that warms you here shall shine on me,

          And those his golden beams to you here lent

          Shall point on me and gild my banishment.

        KING RICHARD. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,

          Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:

          The sly slow hours shall not determinate

          The dateless limit of thy dear exile;

          The hopeless word of 'never to return'

          Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

        MOWBRAY. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,

          And all unlook'd for from your Highness' mouth.

          A dearer merit, not so deep a maim

          As to be cast forth in the common air,

          Have I deserved at your Highness' hands.

          The language I have learnt these forty years,

          My native English, now I must forgo;

          And now my tongue's use is to me no more

          Than an unstringed viol or a harp;

          Or like a cunning instrument cas'd up

          Or, being open, put into his hands

          That knows no touch to tune the harmony.

          Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue,

          Doubly portcullis'd with my teeth and lips;

          And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance

          Is made my gaoler to attend on me.

          I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,

          Too far in years to be a pupil now.

          What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death,

          Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

        KING RICHARD. It boots thee not to be compassionate;

          After our sentence plaining comes too late.

        MOWBRAY. Then thus I turn me from my countrv's light,

          To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.

        KING RICHARD. Return again, and take an oath with thee.

          Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands;

          Swear by the duty that you owe to God,

          Our part therein we banish with yourselves,

          To keep the oath that we administer:

          You never shall, so help you truth and God,

          Embrace each other's love in banishment;

          Nor never look upon each other's face;

          Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile

          This louring tempest of your home-bred hate;

          Nor never by advised purpose meet

          To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,

          'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.

        BOLINGBROKE. I swear.

        MOWBRAY. And I, to keep all this.

        BOLINGBROKE. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy.

          By this time, had the King permitted us,

          One of our souls had wand'red in the air,

          Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our flesh,

          As now our flesh is banish'd from this land-

          Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm;

          Since thou hast far to go, bear not along

          The clogging burden of a guilty soul.

        MOWBRAY. No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,

          My name be blotted from the book of life,

          And I from heaven banish'd as from hence!

          But what thou art, God, thou, and I, do know;

          And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue.

          Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray:

          Save back to England, an the world's my way. [Exit]

        KING RICHARD. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes

          I see thy grieved heart. Thy sad aspect

          Hath from the number of his banish'd years

          Pluck'd four away. [To BOLINGBROKE] Six frozen winters spent,

          Return with welcome home from banishment.

        BOLINGBROKE. How long a time lies in one little word!

          Four lagging winters and four wanton springs

          End in a word: such is the breath of Kings.

        GAUNT. I thank my liege that