Беспокойное бессмертие: 450 лет со дня рождения Уильяма Шекспира

Yea, Richard, when I know, but I protest
As yet I do not. But as I can learn,
He hearkens after prophecies and dreams,
And from the cross-row plucks the letter ʼG’.
And says a wizard told him that by ʼG’
His issue disinherited should be.
And for my name of George begins with ʼG’,
It follows in his thought that I am he.
These, as I learn, and such like toys as these
Hath moved his highness to commit me now.

Richard

Why, this it is when men are ruled by women.
ʼTis not the king that sends you to the Tower.
My lady Grey, his wife, Clarence, ʼtis she
That tempts him to this harsh extremity.
Was it not she and that good man of worship,
Anthony Woodville, her brother there,
That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower,
From whence this present day he is delivered?
We are not safe, Clarence, we are not safe.

Clarence

By heaven, I think there is no man secure
But the queen’s kindred and night-walking heralds
That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore.
Heard you not what an humble suppliant
Lord Hastings was for her delivery?

Richard

Humbly complaining to her deity
Got my Lord Chamberlain his liberty.
I’ll tell you what, I think it is our way,
If we will keep in favour with the king,
To be her men and wear her livery.
The jealous, o’er-worn widow and herself,
Since that our brother dubbed them gentlewomen,
Are mighty gossips in our monarchy.

Brakenbury

I beseech your graces both to pardon me;
His majesty hath straitly given in charge
That no man shall have private conference,
Of what degree soever, with your brother.

Richard

Even so. And please your worship, Brakenbury,
You may partake of any thing we say.
We speak no treason, man. We say the king
Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen
Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous.
We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot,
A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue,
And that the queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks.
How say you, sir? Can you deny all this?

Brakenbury

With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.

Richard

Naught to do with Mistress Shore? I tell thee, fellow,
He that doth naught with her (excepting one)
Were best to do it secretly alone.

Brakenbury

What one, my lord?

Richard

Her husband, knave. Wouldst thou betray me?

Brakenbury

I do beseech your grace to pardon me, and withal
Forbear your conference with the noble duke.

Clarence

We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey.

Richard

We are the queen’s abjects and must obey.
Brother, farewell. I will unto the king,
And whatsoe’er you will employ me in,
I will perform it to enfranchise you.
Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood
Touches me deeper than you can imagine.