CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир
By it selfe, and we will nothing pay
For wearing our owne Noses
Qu. That opportunity
Which then they had to take from’s, to resume
We haue againe. Remember Sir, my Liege,
The Kings your Ancestors, together with
The naturall brauery of your Isle, which stands
As Neptunes Parke, ribb’d, and pal’d in
With Oakes vnskaleable, and roaring Waters,
With Sands that will not beare your Enemies Boates,
But sucke them vp to’th’ Topmast. A kinde of Conquest
Caesar made heere, but made not heere his bragge
Of Came, and Saw, and Ouer-came: with shame
(The first that euer touch’d him) he was carried
From off our Coast, twice beaten: and his Shipping
(Poore ignorant Baubles) on our terrible Seas
Like Egge-shels mou’d vpon their Surges, crack’d
As easily ‘gainst our Rockes. For ioy whereof,
The fam’d Cassibulan, who was once at point
(Oh giglet Fortune) to master Caesars Sword,
Made Luds-Towne with reioycing-Fires bright,
And Britaines strut with Courage
Clot. Come, there’s no more Tribute to be paid: our Kingdome is stronger then it was at that time: and (as I said) there is no mo such Caesars, other of them may haue crook’d Noses, but to owe such straite Armes, none Cym. Son, let your Mother end
Clot. We haue yet many among vs, can gripe as hard as Cassibulan, I doe not say I am one: but I haue a hand. Why Tribute? Why should we pay Tribute? If Caesar can hide the Sun from vs with a Blanket, or put the Moon in his pocket, we will pay him Tribute for light: else Sir, no more Tribute, pray you now
Cym. You must know,
Till the iniurious Romans, did extort
This Tribute from vs, we were free. Caesars Ambition,
Which swell’d so much, that it did almost stretch
The sides o’th’ World, against all colour heere,
Did put the yoake vpon’s; which to shake off
Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon
Our selues to be, we do. Say then to Caesar,
Our Ancestor was that Mulmutius, which
Ordain’d our Lawes, whose vse the Sword of Caesar
Hath too much mangled; whose repayre, and franchise,
Shall (by the power we hold) be our good deed,
Tho Rome be therfore angry. Mulmutius made our lawes
Who was the first of Britaine, which did put
His browes within a golden Crowne, and call’d
Himselfe a King
Luc. I am sorry Cymbeline,
That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar
(Caesar, that hath moe Kings his Seruants, then
Thy selfe Domesticke Officers) thine Enemy:
Receyue it from me then. Warre, and Confusion
In Caesars name pronounce I ‘gainst thee: Looke
For fury, not to be resisted. Thus defide,
I thanke thee for my selfe
Cym. Thou art welcome Caius,
Thy Caesar Knighted me; my youth I spent
Much vnder him; of him, I gather’d Honour,
Which he, to seeke of me againe, perforce,
Behooues me keepe at vtterance. I am perfect,
That the Pannonians and Dalmatians, for
Their Liberties are now in Armes: a President
Which not to reade, would shew the Britaines cold:
So Caesar shall not finde them
Luc. Let proofe speake Clot. His Maiesty biddes you welcome. Make pastime with vs, a day, or two, or longer: if you seek vs afterwards in other tearmes, you shall finde vs in our Saltwater-Girdle: if you beate vs out of it, it is yours: if you fall in the aduenture, our Crowes shall fare the better for you: and there’s an end
Luc. So sir
Cym. I know your Masters pleasure, and he mine:
All the Remaine, is welcome.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter Pisanio reading of a Letter.
Pis. How? of Adultery? Wherefore write you not
What Monsters her accuse? Leonatus:
Oh Master, what a strange infection
Is falne into thy eare? What false Italian,
(As poysonous tongu’d, as handed) hath preuail’d
On thy too ready hearing? Disloyall? No.
She’s punish’d for her Truth; and vndergoes
More Goddesse-like, then Wife-like; such Assaults
As would take in some Vertue. Oh my Master,
Thy mind to her, is now as lowe, as were
Thy Fortunes. How? That I should murther her,
Vpon the Loue, and Truth, and Vowes; which I
Haue made to thy command? I her? Her blood?
If it be so, to do good seruice, neuer
Let me be counted seruiceable. How looke I,
That I should seeme to lacke humanity,
So much as this Fact comes to? Doo’t: The Letter.
That I haue sent her, by her owne command,
Shall giue thee opportunitie. Oh damn’d paper,
Blacke as the Inke that’s on thee: senselesse bauble,
Art thou a Foedarie for this Act; and look’st
So Virgin-like without? Loe here she comes.
Enter Imogen.
I am ignorant in what I am commanded Imo. How now Pisanio?
Pis. Madam, heere is a Letter from my Lord
Imo. Who, thy Lord? That is my Lord Leonatus?
Oh, learn’d indeed were that Astronomer
That knew the Starres, as I his Characters,
Heel’d lay the Future open. You good Gods,
Let what is heere contain’d, rellish of Loue,
Of my Lords health, of his content: yet not
That we two are asunder, let that grieue him;
Some griefes are medcinable, that is one of them,
For it doth physicke Loue, of his content,
All but in that. Good Wax, thy leaue: blest be
You Bees that make these Lockes of counsaile. Louers,
And men in dangerous Bondes pray not alike,
Though Forfeytours you cast in prison, yet
You claspe young Cupids Tables: good Newes Gods.
Iustice and your Fathers wrath (should he take me in his
Dominion) could not be so cruell to me, as you: (oh the deerest