CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир
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,