King Richard II - Уильям Шекспир 3 стр.

  KING RICHARD. We did observe. Cousin Aumerle,
    How far brought you high Hereford on his way?
  AUMERLE. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,
    But to the next high way, and there I left him.
  KING RICHARD. And say, what store of parting tears were shed?
  AUMERLE. Faith, none for me; except the north-east wind,
    Which then blew bitterly against our faces,
    Awak'd the sleeping rheum, and so by chance
    Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.
  KING RICHARD. What said our cousin when you parted with him?
  AUMERLE. 'Farewell.'
    And, for my heart disdained that my tongue
    Should so profane the word, that taught me craft
    To counterfeit oppression of such grief
    That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave.
    Marry, would the word 'farewell' have length'ned hours
    And added years to his short banishment,
    He should have had a volume of farewells;
    But since it would not, he had none of me.
  KING RICHARD. He is our cousin, cousin; but 'tis doubt,
    When time shall call him home from banishment,
    Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.
    Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green,
    Observ'd his courtship to the common people;
    How he did seem to dive into their hearts
    With humble and familiar courtesy;
    What reverence he did throw away on slaves,
    Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles
    And patient underbearing of his fortune,
    As 'twere to banish their affects with him.
    Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
    A brace of draymen bid God speed him well
    And had the tribute of his supple knee,
    With 'Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends';
    As were our England in reversion his,
    And he our subjects' next degree in hope.
  GREEN. Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts!
    Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland,
    Expedient manage must be made, my liege,
    Ere further leisure yicld them further means
    For their advantage and your Highness' loss.
  KING RICHARD. We will ourself in person to this war;
    And, for our coffers, with too great a court
    And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,
    We are enforc'd to farm our royal realm;
    The revenue whereof shall furnish us
    For our affairs in hand. If that come short,
    Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters;
    Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,
    They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold,
    And send them after to supply our wants;
    For we will make for Ireland presently.

    Bushy, what news?
  BUSHY. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord,
    Suddenly taken; and hath sent poste-haste
    To entreat your Majesty to visit him.
  KING RICHARD. Where lies he?
  BUSHY. At Ely House.
  KING RICHARD. Now put it, God, in the physician's mind
    To help him to his grave immediately!
    The lining of his coffers shall make coats
    To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.
    Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him.
    Pray God we may make haste, and come too late!
  ALL. Amen. [Exeunt]

  GAUNT. Will the King come, that I may breathe my last
    In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?
  YORK. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;
    For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.
  GAUNT. O, but they say the tongues of dying men
    Enforce attention like deep harmony.
    Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain;
    For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
    He that no more must say is listen'd more
    Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
    More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before.
    The setting sun, and music at the close,
    As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
    Writ in remembrance more than things long past.
    Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,
    My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.
  YORK. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds,
    As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond,
    Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound
    The open ear of youth doth always listen;
    Report of fashions in proud Italy,
    Whose manners still our tardy apish nation
    Limps after in base imitation.
    Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity-
    So it be new, there's no respect how vile-
    That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?
    Then all too late comes counsel to be heard
    Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard.
    Direct not him whose way himself will choose.
    'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.
  GAUNT. Methinks I am a prophet new inspir'd,
    And thus expiring do foretell of him:
    His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,
    For violent fires soon burn out themselves;
    Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;
    He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;

  GAUNT. Will the King come, that I may breathe my last
    In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?
  YORK. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;
    For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.
  GAUNT. O, but they say the tongues of dying men
    Enforce attention like deep harmony.
    Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain;
    For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
    He that no more must say is listen'd more
    Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
    More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before.
    The setting sun, and music at the close,
    As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
    Writ in remembrance more than things long past.
    Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,
    My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.
  YORK. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds,
    As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond,
    Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound
    The open ear of youth doth always listen;
    Report of fashions in proud Italy,
    Whose manners still our tardy apish nation
    Limps after in base imitation.
    Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity-
    So it be new, there's no respect how vile-
    That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?
    Then all too late comes counsel to be heard
    Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard.
    Direct not him whose way himself will choose.
    'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.
  GAUNT. Methinks I am a prophet new inspir'd,
    And thus expiring do foretell of him:
    His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,
    For violent fires soon burn out themselves;
    Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;
    He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;