CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

      SCENE V.

       Enter Cymbeline, Queene, Cloten, Lucius, and Lords.

       Cym. Thus farre, and so farewell

       Luc. Thankes, Royall Sir:

       My Emperor hath wrote, I must from hence,

       And am right sorry, that I must report ye

       My Masters Enemy

       Cym. Our Subiects (Sir)

       Will not endure his yoake; and for our selfe

       To shew lesse Soueraignty then they, must needs

       Appeare vn-Kinglike

       Luc. So Sir: I desire of you

       A Conduct ouer Land, to Milford-Hauen.

       Madam, all ioy befall your Grace, and you

       Cym. My Lords, you are appointed for that Office:

       The due of Honor, in no point omit:

       So farewell Noble Lucius

       Luc. Your hand, my Lord

       Clot. Receiue it friendly: but from this time forth

       I weare it as your Enemy

       Luc. Sir, the Euent

       Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well

       Cym. Leaue not the worthy Lucius, good my Lords

       Till he haue crost the Seuern. Happines.

       Exit Lucius, &c

       Qu. He goes hence frowning: but it honours vs

       That we haue giuen him cause

       Clot. ‘Tis all the better,

       Your valiant Britaines haue their wishes in it

       Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor

       How it goes heere. It fits vs therefore ripely

       Our Chariots, and our Horsemen be in readinesse:

       The Powres that he already hath in Gallia

       Will soone be drawne to head, from whence he moues

       His warre for Britaine

       Qu. ‘Tis not sleepy businesse,

       But must be look’d too speedily, and strongly

       Cym. Our expectation that it would be thus

       Hath made vs forward. But my gentle Queene,

       Where is our Daughter? She hath not appear’d

       Before the Roman, nor to vs hath tender’d

       The duty of the day. She looke vs like

       A thing more made of malice, then of duty,

       We haue noted it. Call her before vs, for

       We haue beene too slight in sufferance

       Qu. Royall Sir,

       Since the exile of Posthumus, most retyr’d

       Hath her life bin: the Cure whereof, my Lord,

       ‘Tis time must do. Beseech your Maiesty,

       Forbeare sharpe speeches to her. Shee’s a Lady

       So tender of rebukes, that words are stroke;

       And strokes death to her.

       Enter a Messenger.

       Cym. Where is she Sir? How

       Can her contempt be answer’d?

       Mes. Please you Sir,

       Her Chambers are all lock’d, and there’s no answer

       That will be giuen to’th’ lowd of noise, we make

       Qu. My Lord, when last I went to visit her,

       She pray’d me to excuse her keeping close,

       Whereto constrain’d by her infirmitie,

       She should that dutie leaue vnpaide to you

       Which dayly she was bound to proffer: this

       She wish’d me to make knowne: but our great Court

       Made me too blame in memory

       Cym. Her doores lock’d?

       Not seene of late? Grant Heauens, that which I

       Feare, proue false.

       Enter.

       Qu. Sonne, I say, follow the King Clot. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old Seruant

       I haue not seene these two dayes.

       Enter.

       Qu. Go, looke after:

       Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus,

       He hath a Drugge of mine: I pray, his absence

       Proceed by swallowing that. For he beleeues

       It is a thing most precious. But for her,

       Where is she gone? Haply dispaire hath seiz’d her:

       Or wing’d with feruour of her loue, she’s flowne

       To her desir’d Posthumus: gone she is,

       To death, or to dishonor, and my end

       Can make good vse of either. Shee being downe,

       I haue the placing of the Brittish Crowne.

       Enter Cloten.

       How now, my Sonne?

       Clot. ‘Tis certaine she is fled:

       Go in and cheere the King, he rages, none

       Dare come about him

       Qu. All the better: may

       This night forestall him of the comming day.

       Exit Qu.

       Clo. I loue, and hate her: for she’s Faire and Royall,

       And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite

       Then Lady, Ladies, Woman, from euery one

       The best she hath, and she of all compounded

       Out-selles them all. I loue her