CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир
euer look’d on blood,
But that of Coward Hares, hot Goats, and Venison?
Neuer bestrid a Horse saue one, that had
A Rider like my selfe, who ne’re wore Rowell,
Nor Iron on his heele? I am asham’d
To looke vpon the holy Sunne, to haue
The benefit of his blest Beames, remaining
So long a poore vnknowne
Gui. By heauens Ile go,
If you will blesse me Sir, and giue me leaue,
Ile take the better care: but if you will not,
The hazard therefore due fall on me, by
The hands of Romaines
Arui. So say I, Amen Bel. No reason I (since of your liues you set
So slight a valewation) should reserue
My crack’d one to more care. Haue with you Boyes:
If in your Country warres you chance to dye,
That is my Bed too (Lads) and there Ile lye.
Lead, lead; the time seems long, their blood thinks scorn
Till it flye out, and shew them Princes borne.
Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Enter Posthumus alone.
Post. Yea bloody cloth, Ile keep thee: for I am wisht
Thou should’st be colour’d thus. You married ones,
If each of you should take this course, how many
Must murther Wiues much better then themselues
For wrying but a little? Oh Pisanio,
Euery good Seruant do’s not all Commands:
No Bond, but to do iust ones. Gods, if you
Should haue ‘tane vengeance on my faults, I neuer
Had liu’d to put on this: so had you saued
The noble Imogen, to repent, and strooke
Me (wretch) more worth your Vengeance. But alacke,
You snatch some hence for little faults; that’s loue
To haue them fall no more: you some permit
To second illes with illes, each elder worse,
And make them dread it, to the dooers thrift.
But Imogen is your owne, do your best willes,
And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither
Among th’ Italian Gentry, and to fight
Against my Ladies Kingdome: ‘Tis enough
That (Britaine) I haue kill’d thy Mistris: Peace,
Ile giue no wound to thee: therefore good Heauens,
Heare patiently my purpose. Ile disrobe me
Of these Italian weedes, and suite my selfe
As do’s a Britaine Pezant: so Ile fight
Against the part I come with: so Ile dye
For thee (O Imogen) euen for whom my life
Is euery breath, a death: and thus, vnknowne,
Pittied, nor hated, to the face of perill
My selfe Ile dedicate. Let me make men know
More valour in me, then my habits show.
Gods, put the strength o’th’Leonati in me:
To shame the guize o’th’ world, I will begin,
The fashion lesse without, and more within.
Enter.
SCENE II.
Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and the Romane Army at one doore: and
the Britaine
Army at another: Leonatus Posthumus following like a poore
Souldier. They
march ouer, and goe out. Then enter againe in Skirmish Iachimo
and
Posthumus: he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then
leaues him.
Iac. The heauinesse and guilt within my bosome,
Takes off my manhood: I haue belyed a Lady,
The Princesse of this Country; and the ayre on’t
Reuengingly enfeebles me, or could this Carle,
A very drudge of Natures, haue subdu’de me
In my profession? Knighthoods, and Honors borne
As I weare mine) are titles but of scorne.
If that thy Gentry (Britaine) go before
This Lowt, as he exceeds our Lords, the oddes
Is, that we scarse are men, and you are Goddes.
Enter.
The Battaile continues, the Britaines fly, Cymbeline is taken: Then enter to his rescue, Bellarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus.
Bel. Stand, stand, we haue th’ aduantage of the ground,
The Lane is guarded: Nothing rowts vs, but
The villany of our feares
Gui. Arui. Stand, stand, and fight.
Enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britaines. They Rescue
Cymbeline, and
Exeunt.
Then enter Lucius, Iachimo, and Imogen.
Luc. Away boy from the Troopes, and saue thy selfe:
For friends kil friends, and the disorder’s such
As warre were hoodwink’d
Iac. ‘Tis their fresh supplies
Luc. It is a day turn’d strangely: or betimes
Let’s reinforce, or fly.
Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Enter Posthumus, and a Britaine Lord.
Lor. Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?
Post. I did,
Though you it seemes come from the Fliers?
Lo. I did
Post. No blame be to you Sir, for all was lost,
But that the Heauens fought: the King himselfe
Of his wings destitute, the Army broken,
And but the backes of Britaines seene; all flying
Through a strait Lane, the Enemy full-heart’d,
Lolling the Tongue with slaught’ring: hauing worke
More plentifull, then Tooles to doo’t: strooke downe
Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling
Meerely through feare, that the strait passe was damm’d
With deadmen, hurt behinde, and Cowards liuing
To dye with length’ned shame