Cymbeline. Уильям Шекспир
I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare
Subdues all pangs, all fears.
CYMBELINE.
Past grace? obedience?
IMOGEN.
Past hope, and in despair; that way past grace.
CYMBELINE.
That mightst have had the sole son of my queen!
IMOGEN.
O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle,
And did avoid a puttock.
CYMBELINE.
Thou took’st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne
A seat for baseness.
IMOGEN.
No; I rather added
A lustre to it.
CYMBELINE.
O thou vile one!
IMOGEN.
Sir,
It is your fault that I have lov’d Posthumus.
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is
A man worth any woman; overbuys me
Almost the sum he pays.
CYMBELINE.
What, art thou mad?
IMOGEN.
Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were
A neat-herd’s daughter, and my Leonatus
Our neighbour shepherd’s son!
Enter Queen.
CYMBELINE.
Thou foolish thing!
[To the Queen.] They were again together. You have done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up.
QUEEN.
Beseech your patience. Peace,
Dear lady daughter, peace!—Sweet sovereign,
Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort
Out of your best advice.
CYMBELINE.
Nay, let her languish
A drop of blood a day and, being aged,
Die of this folly.
[Exit with Lords.]
Enter Pisanio.
QUEEN.
Fie! you must give way.
Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news?
PISANIO.
My lord your son drew on my master.
QUEEN.
Ha!
No harm, I trust, is done?
PISANIO.
There might have been,
But that my master rather play’d than fought,
And had no help of anger; they were parted
By gentlemen at hand.
QUEEN.
I am very glad on’t.
IMOGEN.
Your son’s my father’s friend; he takes his part
To draw upon an exile! O brave sir!
I would they were in Afric both together;
Myself by with a needle, that I might prick
The goer-back. Why came you from your master?
PISANIO.
On his command. He would not suffer me
To bring him to the haven; left these notes
Of what commands I should be subject to,
When’t pleas’d you to employ me.
QUEEN.
This hath been
Your faithful servant. I dare lay mine honour
He will remain so.
PISANIO.
I humbly thank your Highness.
QUEEN.
Pray walk awhile.
IMOGEN.
About some half-hour hence,
Pray you speak with me.
You shall at least go see my lord aboard.
For this time leave me.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Britain. A public place.
Enter Cloten and two Lords.
FIRST LORD.
Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in; there’s none abroad so wholesome as that you vent.
CLOTEN.
If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him?
SECOND LORD.
[Aside.] No, faith; not so much as his patience.
FIRST LORD.
Hurt him! His body’s a passable carcass if he be not hurt. It is a throughfare for steel if it be not hurt.
SECOND LORD.
[Aside.] His steel was in debt; it went o’ th’ backside the town.
CLOTEN.
The villain would not stand me.
SECOND LORD.
[Aside.] No; but he fled forward still, toward your face.
FIRST LORD.
Stand you? You have land enough of your own; but he added to your having, gave you some ground.
SECOND LORD.
[Aside.] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies!
CLOTEN.
I would they had not come between us.
SECOND LORD.
[Aside.] So would I, till you had measur’d how long a fool you were upon the ground.
CLOTEN.
And that she should love this fellow, and refuse me!
SECOND LORD.
[Aside.] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damn’d.
FIRST LORD.
Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together; she’s a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit.
SECOND LORD.
[Aside.] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her.
CLOTEN.
Come, I’ll to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt done!
SECOND LORD.
[Aside.] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt.
CLOTEN.
You’ll go with us?
FIRST LORD.
I’ll attend your lordship.
CLOTEN.
Nay, come, let’s go together.
SECOND LORD.