Richard. The curse my noble father laid on thee

The curse my noble father laid on thee

When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper

And with thy scorns drew’st rivers from his eyes,

And then to dry them gav’st the duke a clout

Steeped in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland -

His curses then, from bitterness of soul

Denounced against thee, are all fall’n upon thee,

And God, not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed.

Elizabeth

So just is God, to right the innocent.

Hastings

O, ’twas the foulest deed to slay that babe,

And the most merciless that e’er was heard of.

Rivers

Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported Richard. The curse my noble father laid on thee.

Dorset

No man but prophesied revenge for it. Buckingham

Northumberland, then present, wept to see it. Margaret

What? Were you snarling all before I came,

Ready to catch each other by the throat,

And turn you all your hatred now on me?

Did York’s dread curse prevail so much with heaven

That Henry’s death, my lovely Edward’s death,

Their kingdom’s loss, my woeful banishment,

Should all but answer for that peevish brat?

Can curses pierce the clouds, and enter heaven?

Why, then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses.

Though not by war, by surfeit die your king,

As Richard. The curse my noble father laid on thee ours by murder to make him a king.

Edward thy son, that now is Prince of Wales,

For Edward our son, that was Prince of Wales,

Die in his youth by like untimely violence.

Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen,

Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self.

Long mayst thou live to wail thy children’s death

And see another, as I see thee now,

Decked in thy rights, as thou art stalled in mine.

Long die thy happy days before thy death,

And after many lengthened hours of grief,

Die neither mother, wife, nor England Richard. The curse my noble father laid on thee’s queen.

Rivers and Dorset, you were standers-by,

And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son

Ричард

Тебя отец мой проклял в час, как ты,

Венчав его короною бумажной,

Глумлением исторгнув реки слезны,

Чтоб стер их, ты дала ему лоскут,

Невинной кровью Рутланда пропитан, -

Его проклятья, в них же смерть души

Звучала, пали на тебя. Кровавы

Дела твои не мы караем - Бог. Елизавета

Прав наш Господь, невинных защищая. Хастингс

Убить дитя - что может быть мерзей,

Неслыханней такого изуверства. Ричард

Над смертью сей и изверг прослезился. Дорсет

И всяк пророчил злодеянью месть. Бэкингем

Нортурберленд, что был при том, слезами плакал. Маргарита

Не вы ли грызлись здесь, как Richard. The curse my noble father laid on thee я вошла,

Готовые друг другу в глотку впиться,

И вот обрушили всю ярость на меня,

Слышнее ль небесам проклятья Йорка,

Чем плач о Генрихе и Эдварде драгом,

Их низверженье и мое изгнанье -

Все это за безмозглого щенка?

Пронзят ли толщу туч мои проклятья?

Достигнут ли небес их острия?

Во блуде - не в бою умрет король ваш,

Как наш убит, чтобы узнал король ваш,

Твой сын, твой Эдвард, ныне принц Уэльский,

Как сын наш Эдвард, бывший принц Уэльский,

Безвременно во цвете лет убит.

Ты - королевой ставши за мой счет,

Как я - несчастная, переживи триумф свой!

Детей оплачь и узри королеву,

Что Richard. The curse my noble father laid on thee трон займет твой, как я зрю тебя,

В мои права былые облаченну!

Пусть долгим будет счастия закат,

И да умрешь, вкусивши вдоволь скорби -

Не королева, не жена, не мать.

Вы были подле, Риверс, Дорсет, Хастингс,

Когда мой сын кровавыми клинками

Was stabbed with bloody daggers. God I pray him,

That none of you may live his natural age,

But by some unlooked accident cut off. Richard

Have done thy charm, thou hateful, withered hag. Margaret

And leave out thee? Stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me.

If heaven have any grievous plague in store

Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,

Oh, let Richard. The curse my noble father laid on thee them keep it till thy sins be ripe

And then hurl down their indignation

On thee the troubler of the poor world’s peace.

The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul.

Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv’st,

And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends.

No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,

Unless it be while some tormenting dream

Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils.

Thou elvish-marked, abortive, rooting hog,

Thou that wast sealed in thy nativity

The slave of nature and the son of hell.

Thou slander of thy heavy Richard. The curse my noble father laid on thee mother’s womb,

Thou loathèd issue of thy father’s loins,

Thou rag of honour, thou detested - Richard

Margaret. Margaret

Richard. Richard

Ha? Margaret

I call thee not. Richard



I cry thee mercy then, for I did think

That thou hadst called me all these bitter names. Margaret

Why so I did, but looked for no reply.

Oh, let me make the period to my curse. Richard

’Tis done by me, and ends in ‘Margaret’.


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Документ Richard. The curse my noble father laid on thee