CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

      SCENE II.

       Enter Belarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, and Imogen from the Caue.

       Bel. You are not well: Remaine heere in the Caue,

       Wee’l come to you after Hunting

       Arui. Brother, stay heere:

       Are we not Brothers?

       Imo. So man and man should be,

       But Clay and Clay, differs in dignitie,

       Whose dust is both alike. I am very sicke,

       Gui. Go you to Hunting, Ile abide with him

       Imo. So sicke I am not, yet I am not well:

       But not so Citizen a wanton, as

       To seeme to dye, ere sicke: So please you, leaue me,

       Sticke to your Iournall course: the breach of Custome,

       Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me

       Cannot amend me. Society, is no comfort

       To one not sociable: I am not very sicke,

       Since I can reason of it: pray you trust me heere,

       Ile rob none but my selfe, and let me dye

       Stealing so poorely

       Gui. I loue thee: I haue spoke it,

       How much the quantity, the waight as much,

       As I do loue my Father

       Bel. What? How? how?

       Arui. If it be sinne to say so (Sir) I yoake mee

       In my good Brothers fault: I know not why

       I loue this youth, and I haue heard you say,

       Loue’s reason’s, without reason. The Beere at doore,

       And a demand who is’t shall dye, I’ld say

       My Father, not this youth

       Bel. Oh noble straine!

       O worthinesse of Nature, breed of Greatnesse!

       “Cowards father Cowards, & Base things Syre Bace;

       “Nature hath Meale, and Bran; Contempt, and Grace.

       I’me not their Father, yet who this should bee,

       Doth myracle it selfe, lou’d before mee.

       ‘Tis the ninth houre o’th’ Morne

       Arui. Brother, farewell Imo. I wish ye sport

       Arui. You health. - So please you Sir

       Imo. These are kinde Creatures.

       Gods, what lyes I haue heard:

       Our Courtiers say, all’s sauage, but at Court;

       Experience, oh thou disproou’st Report.

       Th’ emperious Seas breeds Monsters; for the Dish,

       Poore Tributary Riuers, as sweet Fish:

       I am sicke still, heart-sicke; Pisanio,

       Ile now taste of thy Drugge

       Gui. I could not stirre him:

       He said he was gentle, but vnfortunate;

       Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest

       Arui. Thus did he answer me: yet said heereafter,

       I might know more

       Bel. To’th’ Field, to’th’ Field:

       Wee’l leaue you for this time, go in, and rest

       Arui. Wee’l not be long away

       Bel. Pray be not sicke,

       For you must be our Huswife

       Imo. Well, or ill,

       I am bound to you.

       Enter.

       Bel. And shal’t be euer.

       This youth, how ere distrest, appeares he hath had

       Good Ancestors

       Arui. How Angell-like he sings?

       Gui. But his neate Cookerie?

       Arui. He cut our Rootes in Charracters,

       And sawc’st our Brothes, as Iuno had bin sicke,

       And he her Dieter

       Arui. Nobly he yoakes

       A smiling, with a sigh; as if the sighe

       Was that it was, for not being such a Smile:

       The Smile, mocking the Sigh, that it would flye

       From so diuine a Temple, to commix

       With windes, that Saylors raile at

       Gui. I do note,

       That greefe and patience rooted in them both,

       Mingle their spurres together

       Arui. Grow patient,

       And let the stinking-Elder (Greefe) vntwine

       His perishing roote, with the encreasing Vine

       Bel. It is great morning. Come away: Who’s there?

       Enter Cloten.

       Clo. I cannot finde those Runnagates, that Villaine

       Hath mock’d me. I am faint

       Bel. Those Runnagates?

       Meanes he not vs? I partly know him, ‘tis

       Cloten, the Sonne o’th’ Queene. I feare some Ambush:

       I saw him not these many yeares, and yet

       I know ‘tis he: We are held as OutLawes: Hence

       Gui. He is but one: you, and my Brother search

       What Companies are neere: pray you away,

       Let me alone with him

       Clot. Soft, what are you

       That flye me thus? Some villaine-Mountainers?

       I haue heard of such. What Slaue art thou?

       Gui. A thing

       More slauish did I ne’re, then answering

       A Slaue without a knocke

       Clot. Thou art a Robber,

       A Law-breaker, a Villaine: yeeld thee Theefe

       Gui. To who? to thee? What art thou? Haue not I

       An arme as bigge as thine? A heart, as bigge:

       Thy words I grant are bigger: for I weare not

       My Dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art:

       Why I should yeeld to thee?

       Clot. Thou Villaine base,

       Know’st me not by my Cloathes?

       Gui. No, nor thy Taylor, Rascall:

       Who is thy Grandfather? He made those cloathes,

       Which (as it seemes) make thee

       Clo. Thou precious Varlet,

       My Taylor made them not

       Gui. Hence then, and thanke

       The man that gaue them thee. Thou art some Foole,

       I am loath to beate thee