Richard II. Уильям Шекспир

         King. Mowbray, impartiall are our eyes and eares,

      Were he my brother, nay our kingdomes heyre,

      As he is but my fathers brothers sonne;

      Now by my Scepters awe, I make a vow,

      Such neighbour-neerenesse to our sacred blood,

      Should nothing priuiledge him, nor partialize

      The vn-stooping firmenesse of my vpright soule.

      He is our subiect (Mowbray) so art thou,

      Free speech, and fearelesse, I to thee allow

         Mow. Then Bullingbrooke, as low as to thy heart,

      Through the false passage of thy throat; thou lyest:

      Three parts of that receipt I had for Callice,

      Disburst I to his Highnesse souldiers;

      The other part reseru'd I by consent,

      For that my Soueraigne Liege was in my debt,

      Vpon remainder of a deere Accompt,

      Since last I went to France to fetch his Queene:

      Now swallow downe that Lye. For Glousters death,

      I slew him not; but (to mine owne disgrace)

      Neglected my sworne duty in that case:

      For you my noble Lord of Lancaster,

      The honourable Father to my foe,

      Once I did lay an ambush for your life,

      A trespasse that doth vex my greeued soule:

      But ere I last receiu'd the Sacrament,

      I did confesse it, and exactly begg'd

      Your Graces pardon, and I hope I had it.

      This is my fault: as for the rest appeal'd,

      It issues from the rancour of a Villaine,

      A recreant, and most degenerate Traitor,

      Which in my selfe I boldly will defend,

      And interchangeably hurle downe my gage

      Vpon this ouer-weening Traitors foote,

      To proue my selfe a loyall Gentleman,

      Euen in the best blood chamber'd in his bosome.

      In hast whereof, most heartily I pray

      Your Highnesse to assigne our Triall day

         King. Wrath-kindled Gentlemen be rul'd by me:

      Let's purge this choller without letting blood:

      This we prescribe, though no Physition,

      Deepe malice makes too deepe incision.

      Forget, forgiue, conclude, and be agreed,

      Our Doctors say, This is no time to bleed.

      Good Vnckle, let this end where it begun,

      Wee'l calme the Duke of Norfolke; you, your son

         Gaunt. To be a make-peace shall become my age,

      Throw downe (my sonne) the Duke of Norfolkes gage

      King. And Norfolke, throw downe his

         Gaunt. When Harrie when? Obedience bids,

      Obedience bids I should not bid agen

         King. Norfolke, throw downe, we bidde; there is

      no boote

         Mow. My selfe I throw (dread Soueraigne) at thy foot.

      My life thou shalt command, but not my shame,

      The one my dutie owes, but my faire name

      Despight of death, that liues vpon my graue

      To darke dishonours vse, thou shalt not haue.

      I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffel'd heere,

      Pierc'd to the soule with slanders venom'd speare:

      The which no balme can cure, but his heart blood

      Which breath'd this poyson

         King. Rage must be withstood:

      Giue me his gage: Lyons make Leopards tame

         Mo. Yea, but not change his spots: take but my shame,

      And I resigne my gage. My deere, deere Lord,

      The purest treasure mortall times afford

      Is spotlesse reputation: that away,

      Men are but gilded loame, or painted clay.

      A Iewell in a ten times barr'd vp Chest,

      Is a bold spirit, in a loyall brest.

      Mine Honor is my life; both grow in one:

      Take Honor from me, and my life is done.

      Then (deere my Liege) mine Honor let me trie,

      In that I liue; and for that will I die

         King. Coosin, throw downe your gage,

      Do you begin

         Bul. Oh heauen defend my soule from such foule sin.

      Shall I seeme Crest-falne in my fathers sight,

      Or with pale beggar-feare impeach my hight

      Before this out-dar'd dastard? Ere my toong,

      Shall wound mine honor with such feeble wrong;

      Or sound so base a parle: my teeth shall teare

      The slauish motiue of recanting feare,

      And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,

      Where shame doth harbour, euen in Mowbrayes face.