CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир
Imo. You make amends Iach. He sits ‘mongst men, like a defended God;
He hath a kinde of Honor sets him off,
More then a mortall seeming. Be not angrie
(Most mighty Princesse) that I haue aduentur’d
To try your taking of a false report, which hath
Honour’d with confirmation your great Iudgement,
In the election of a Sir, so rare,
Which you know, cannot erre. The loue I beare him,
Made me to fan you thus, but the Gods made you
(Vnlike all others) chaffelesse. Pray your pardon
Imo. All’s well Sir:
Take my powre i’th’ Court for yours
Iach. My humble thankes: I had almost forgot
T’ intreat your Grace, but in a small request,
And yet of moment too, for it concernes:
Your Lord, my selfe, and other Noble Friends
Are partners in the businesse
Imo. Pray what is’t?
Iach. Some dozen Romanes of vs, and your Lord
(The best Feather of our wing) haue mingled summes
To buy a Present for the Emperor:
Which I (the Factor for the rest) haue done
In France: ‘tis Plate of rare deuice, and Iewels
Of rich, and exquisite forme, their valewes great,
And I am something curious, being strange
To haue them in safe stowage: May it please you
To take them in protection
Imo. Willingly:
And pawne mine Honor for their safety, since
My Lord hath interest in them, I will keepe them
In my Bedchamber
Iach. They are in a Trunke
Attended by my men: I will make bold
To send them to you, onely for this night:
I must aboord to morrow
Imo. O no, no Iach. Yes I beseech: or I shall short my word
By length’ning my returne. From Gallia,
I crost the Seas on purpose, and on promise
To see your Grace
Imo. I thanke you for your paines:
But not away to morrow
Iach. O I must Madam.
Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please
To greet your Lord with writing, doo’t to night,
I haue out-stood my time, which is materiall
To’th’ tender of our Present
Imo. I will write:
Send your Trunke to me, it shall safe be kept,
And truely yeelded you: you’re very welcome.
Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Enter Clotten, and the two Lords.
Clot. Was there euer man had such lucke? when I kist the Iacke vpon an vp-cast, to be hit away? I had a hundred pound on’t: and then a whorson Iacke-an-Apes, must take me vp for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oathes of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure
1. What got he by that? you haue broke his pate
with your Bowle
2. If his wit had bin like him that broke it: it would
haue run all out
Clot. When a Gentleman is dispos’d to sweare: it is
not for any standers by to curtall his oathes. Ha?
2. No my Lord; nor crop the eares of them
Clot. Whorson dog: I gaue him satisfaction? would
he had bin one of my Ranke
2. To haue smell’d like a Foole
Clot. I am not vext more at any thing in th’ earth: a pox on’t I had rather not be so Noble as I am: they dare not fight with me, because of the Queene my Mother: euery Iacke-Slaue hath his belly full of Fighting, and I must go vp and downe like a Cock, that no body can match
2. You are Cocke and Capon too, and you crow
Cock, with your combe on
Clot. Sayest thou?
2. It is not fit your Lordship should vndertake euery
Companion, that you giue offence too
Clot. No, I know that: but it is fit I should commit
offence to my inferiors
2. I, it is fit for your Lordship onely
Clot. Why so I say
1. Did you heere of a Stranger that’s come to Court
night?
Clot. A Stranger, and I not know on’t?
2. He’s a strange Fellow himselfe, and knowes it not
1. There’s an Italian come, and ‘tis thought one of
Leonatus Friends
Clot. Leonatus? A banisht Rascall; and he’s another,
whatsoeuer he be. Who told you of this Stranger?
1. One of your Lordships Pages
Clot. Is it fit I went to looke vpon him? Is there no
derogation in’t?
2. You cannot derogate my Lord
Clot. Not easily I thinke
2. You are a Foole graunted, therefore your Issues
being foolish do not derogate
Clot. Come, Ile go see this Italian: what I haue lost
to day at Bowles, Ile winne to night of him. Come: go
2. Ile attend your Lordship.
Enter.
That such a craftie Diuell as is his Mother
Should yeild the world this Asse: A woman, that
Beares all downe with her Braine, and this her Sonne,
Cannot take two from twenty for his heart,
And leaue eighteene. Alas poore Princesse,
Thou diuine Imogen, what thou endur’st,
Betwixt a Father by thy Stepdame gouern’d,
A Mother hourely coyning plots: A Wooer,
More hatefull then the foule expulsion is
Of thy deere Husband. Then that horrid Act
Of the diuorce, heel’d make the Heauens hold firme
The walls of thy deere Honour. Keepe vnshak’d
That Temple thy faire mind, that thou maist stand
T’ enioy thy banish’d Lord: and this great Land.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter