أرجوك ألا تقعي في شراك حبي,
فأنا أشد كذباً من أيمان السكارى.
أنت تقول إنك تقرأ في عيني أنني قاتلة, حقًا إن هذا لجميل, بل هو جد محتمل, ألا ترى أن العيون التي هي أضعف وأرق ما خلق الله, العيون التي تغلق جفونها إشفاقًا من ذرات الغبار, يسميها الناس العيون الآسرة القاتلة الفتاكة!
William Shakespeareما الحب إلا خيال وجنون, وإني لأنبئك بأن المحب يستحق أن يلقى به في غرفة مظلمة ويجلد بالسوط شأن المجانين, وأما السبب في أن المحبين لا يعاقبون على هذا النحو ولا يشفون من علتهم فهو أن الجنون أصبح شيئا مألوفا حتى ليبتلي به الضاربون بالسياط أنفسهم.
William ShakespeareStichwörter: حب وهم حكمة جنون خيال
Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,
And be it moon, or sun, or what you please.
And if you please to call it a rush candle,
Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.
Rightly to be great
Is not to stir without great argument,
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw
When honor’s at the stake. How stand I then,
That have a father killed, a mother stained,
Excitements of my reason and my blood,
And let all sleep—while, to my shame, I see
The imminent death of twenty thousand men,
That for a fantasy and trick of fame
Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tomb enough and continent
To hide the slain? Oh, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!
What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba
That he should weep for her? What would he do
Had he the motive and the cue for passion
That I have? He would drown the stage with tears
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech,
Make mad the guilty and appall the free,
Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed
The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing—no, not for a king,
Upon whose property and most dear life
A damned defeat was made. Am I a coward?
Who calls me “villain”? Breaks my pate across?
Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face?
Tweaks me by the nose? Gives me the lie i' th' throat
As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this?
Oh, I am slain!
William ShakespeareLet him forever go!-Let him not, Charmian.
Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon,
The other way he's a Mars.
But yet let me lament
With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts
That thou my brother, my competitor
In top of all design, my mate in empire,
Friend and companion in the front of war,
The arm of mine own body, and the heart
Where mine his thoughts did kindle—that our stars
Unreconcilable should divide
Our equalness to this.
Bad is the world, and all will come to naught
when such ill-dealing must be seen in thought.
Stichwörter: william-shakespeare richard-iii english-literature english-theatre elizabethian-theatre
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