CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир
vs vnspeaking sottes
Cym. Nay, nay, to’th’ purpose
Iach. Your daughters Chastity, (there it beginnes)
He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreames,
And she alone, were cold: Whereat, I wretch
Made scruple of his praise, and wager’d with him
Peeces of Gold, ‘gainst this, which then he wore
Vpon his honour’d finger) to attaine
In suite the place of’s bed, and winne this Ring
By hers, and mine Adultery: he (true Knight)
No lesser of her Honour confident
Then I did truly finde her, stakes this Ring,
And would so, had it beene a Carbuncle
Of Phoebus Wheele; and might so safely, had it
Bin all the worth of’s Carre. Away to Britaine
Poste I in this designe: Well may you (Sir)
Remember me at Court, where I was taught
Of your chaste Daughter, the wide difference
‘Twixt Amorous, and Villanous. Being thus quench’d
Of hope, not longing; mine Italian braine,
Gan in your duller Britaine operate
Most vildely: for my vantage excellent.
And to be breefe, my practise so preuayl’d
That I return’d with simular proofe enough,
To make the Noble Leonatus mad,
By wounding his beleefe in her Renowne,
With Tokens thus, and thus: auerring notes
Of Chamber-hanging, Pictures, this her Bracelet
(Oh cunning how I got) nay some markes
Of secret on her person, that he could not
But thinke her bond of Chastity quite crack’d,
I hauing ‘tane the forfeyt. Whereupon,
Me thinkes I see him now
Post. I so thou do’st,
Italian Fiend. Aye me, most credulous Foole,
Egregious murtherer, Theefe, any thing
That’s due to all the Villaines past, in being
To come. Oh giue me Cord, or knife, or poyson,
Some vpright Iusticer. Thou King, send out
For Torturors ingenious: it is I
That all th’ abhorred things o’th’ earth amend
By being worse then they. I am Posthumus,
That kill’d thy Daughter: Villain-like, I lye,
That caus’d a lesser villaine then my selfe,
A sacrilegious Theefe to doo’t. The Temple
Of Vertue was she; yea, and she her selfe.
Spit, and throw stones, cast myre vpon me, set
The dogges o’th’ street to bay me: euery villaine
Be call’d Posthumus Leonatus, and
Be villany lesse then ‘twas. Oh Imogen!
My Queene, my life, my wife: oh Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen
Imo. Peace my Lord, heare, heare Post. Shall’s haue a play of this?
Thou scornfull Page, there lye thy part
Pis. Oh Gentlemen, helpe,
Mine and your Mistris: Oh my Lord Posthumus,
You ne’re kill’d Imogen till now: helpe, helpe,
Mine honour’d Lady
Cym. Does the world go round?
Posth. How comes these staggers on mee?
Pisa. Wake my Mistris
Cym. If this be so, the Gods do meane to strike me
To death, with mortall ioy
Pisa. How fares my Mistris?
Imo. Oh get thee from my sight,
Thou gau’st me poyson: dangerous Fellow hence,
Breath not where Princes are
Cym. The tune of Imogen
Pisa. Lady, the Gods throw stones of sulpher on me, if
That box I gaue you, was not thought by mee
A precious thing, I had it from the Queene
Cym. New matter still
Imo. It poyson’d me
Corn. Oh Gods!
I left out one thing which the Queene confest,
Which must approue thee honest. If Pasanio
Haue (said she) giuen his Mistris that Confection
Which I gaue him for Cordiall, she is seru’d,
As I would serue a Rat
Cym. What’s this, Cornelius?
Corn. The Queene (Sir) very oft importun’d me
To temper poysons for her, still pretending
The satisfaction of her knowledge, onely
In killing Creatures vilde, as Cats and Dogges
Of no esteeme. I dreading, that her purpose
Was of more danger, did compound for her
A certaine stuffe, which being tane, would cease
The present powre of life, but in short time,
All Offices of Nature, should againe
Do their due Functions. Haue you tane of it?
Imo. Most like I did, for I was dead
Bel. My Boyes, there was our error
Gui. This is sure Fidele
Imo. Why did you throw your wedded Lady fro[m] you?
Thinke that you are vpon a Rocke, and now
Throw me againe
Post. Hang there like fruite, my soule,
Till the Tree dye
Cym. How now, my Flesh? my Childe?
What, mak’st thou me a dullard in this Act?
Wilt thou not speake to me?
Imo. Your blessing, Sir
Bel. Though you did loue this youth, I blame ye not,
You had a motiue for’t
Cym. My teares that fall
Proue holy-water on thee; Imogen,
Thy Mothers dead
Imo. I am sorry for’t, my Lord
Cym. Oh, she was naught; and long of her it was
That we meet heere so strangely: but her Sonne
Is gone, we know not how, nor where
Pisa. My Lord,
Now feare is from me, Ile speake troth. Lord Cloten
Vpon my Ladies missing, came to me
With his Sword drawne, foam’d at the mouth, and swore
If I discouer’d not which way she was gone,
It was my instant death. By accident,
I had a feigned Letter of my Masters
Then in my pocket, which directed him
To seeke her on the Mountaines neere to Milford,