CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

CYMBELINE - Уильям Шекспир


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Feare not, ‘tis empty of all things, but Greefe:

       Thy Master is not there, who was indeede

       The riches of it. Do his bidding, strike,

       Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause;

       But now thou seem’st a Coward

       Pis. Hence vile Instrument,

       Thou shalt not damne my hand

       Imo. Why, I must dye:

       And if I do not by thy hand, thou art

       No Seruant of thy Masters. Against Selfe-slaughter,

       There is a prohibition so Diuine,

       That crauens my weake hand: Come, heere’s my heart:

       Something’s a-foot: Soft, soft, wee’l no defence,

       Obedient as the Scabbard. What is heere,

       The Scriptures of the Loyall Leonatus,

       All turn’d to Heresie? Away, away

       Corrupters of my Faith, you shall no more

       Be Stomachers to my heart: thus may pooru Fooles

       Beleeue false Teachers: Though those that are betraid

       Do feele the Treason sharpely, yet the Traitor

       Stands in worse case of woe. And thou Posthumus,

       That didd’st set vp my disobedience ‘gainst the King

       My Father, and makes me put into contempt the suites

       Of Princely Fellowes, shalt heereafter finde

       It is no acte of common passage, but

       A straine of Rarenesse: and I greeue my selfe,

       To thinke, when thou shalt be disedg’d by her,

       That now thou tyrest on, how thy memory

       Will then be pang’d by me. Prythee dispatch,

       The Lambe entreats the Butcher. Wher’s thy knife?

       Thou art too slow to do thy Masters bidding

       When I desire it too

       Pis. Oh gracious Lady:

       Since I receiu’d command to do this businesse,

       I haue not slept one winke

       Imo. Doo’t, and to bed then Pis. Ile wake mine eyeballes first

       Imo. Wherefore then

       Didd’st vndertake it? Why hast thou abus’d

       So many Miles, with a pretence? This place?

       Mine Action? and thine owne? Our Horses labour?

       The Time inuiting thee? The perturb’d Court

       For my being absent? whereunto I neuer

       Purpose returne. Why hast thou gone so farre

       To be vn-bent? when thou hast ‘tane thy stand,

       Th’ elected Deere before thee?

       Pis. But to win time

       To loose so bad employment, in the which

       I haue consider’d of a course: good Ladie

       Heare me with patience

       Imo. Talke thy tongue weary, speake:

       I haue heard I am a Strumpet, and mine eare

       Therein false strooke, can take no greater wound,

       Nor tent, to bottome that. But speake

       Pis. Then Madam,

       I thought you would not backe againe

       Imo. Most like,

       Bringing me heere to kill me

       Pis. Not so neither:

       But if I were as wise, as honest, then

       My purpose would proue well: it cannot be,

       But that my Master is abus’d. Some Villaine,

       I, and singular in his Art, hath done you both

       This cursed iniurie

       Imo. Some Roman Curtezan?

       Pisa. No, on my life:

       Ile giue but notice you are dead, and send him

       Some bloody signe of it. For ‘tis commanded

       I should do so: you shall be mist at Court,

       And that will well confirme it

       Imo. Why good Fellow,

       What shall I do the while? Where bide? How liue?

       Or in my life, what comfort, when I am

       Dead to my Husband?

       Pis. If you’l backe to’th’ Court

       Imo. No Court, no Father, nor no more adoe

       With that harsh, noble, simple nothing:

       That Clotten, whose Loue-suite hath bene to me

       As fearefull as a Siege

       Pis. If not at Court,

       Then not in Britaine must you bide

       Imo. Where then?

       Hath Britaine all the Sunne that shines? Day? Night?

       Are they not but in Britaine? I’th’ worlds Volume

       Our Britaine seemes as of it, but not in’t:

       In a great Poole, a Swannes-nest, prythee thinke

       There’s liuers out of Britaine

       Pis. I am most glad

       You thinke of other place: Th’ Ambassador,

       Lucius the Romane comes to Milford-Hauen

       To morrow. Now, if you could weare a minde

       Darke, as your Fortune is, and but disguise

       That which t’ appeare it selfe, must not yet be,

       But by selfe-danger, you should tread a course

       Pretty, and full of view: yea, happily, neere

       The residence of Posthumus; so nie (at least)

       That though his Actions were not visible, yut

       Report should render him hourely to your eare,

       As truely as he mooues

       Imo. Oh for such meanes,

       Though perill to my modestie, not death on’t

       I would aduenture

       Pis. Well then, heere’s the point:

       You must forget to be a Woman: change

       Command, into obedience. Feare, and Nicenesse

       (The Handmaides of all Women, or more truely

       Woman it pretty selfe) into a waggish courage,

       Ready in gybes, quicke-answer’d, sawcie, and

       As quarrellous as the Weazell: Nay, you must

       Forget that rarest Treasure of your Cheeke,

       Exposing it (but oh the harder heart,

       Alacke no remedy) to the greedy touch

       Of common-kissing Titan: and forget

       Your laboursome and dainty Trimmes, wherein

       You made great Iuno angry

       Imo. Nay be breefe?

       I see into thy end, and am almost

       A man already

       Pis. First, make your selfe but like one,

       Forethinking this. I haue already fit

       (‘Tis in my Cloake-bagge) Doublet, Hat, Hose, all

       That answer to them: Would you in their seruing,

      


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