A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. Уильям Шекспир
so far blameless proves my enterprise
That I have ‘nointed an Athenian’s eyes:
And so far am I glad it so did sort,
As this their jangling I esteem a sport.
OBERON
Thou seest these lovers seek a place to fight;
Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night;
The starry welkin cover thou anon
With drooping fog, as black as Acheron,
And lead these testy rivals so astray
As one come not within another’s way.
Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue,
Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong;
And sometime rail thou like Demetrius;
And from each other look thou lead them thus,
Till o’er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep
With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep:
Then crush this herb into Lysander’s eye;
Whose liquor hath this virtuous property,
To take from thence all error with his might
And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight.
When they next wake, all this derision
Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision;
And back to Athens shall the lovers wend
With league whose date till death shall never end.
Whiles I in this affair do thee employ,
I’ll to my queen, and beg her Indian boy;
And then I will her charmèd eye release
From monster’s view, and all things shall be peace.
PUCK
My fairy lord, this must be done with haste,
For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast;
And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger,
At whose approach ghosts, wandering here and there,
Troop home to churchyards: damnèd spirits all,
That in cross-ways and floods have burial,
Already to their wormy beds are gone;
For fear lest day should look their shames upon
They wilfully exile themselves from light,
And must for aye consort with black-brow’d night.
OBERON
But we are spirits of another sort:
I with the morning’s love have oft made sport;
And, like a forester, the groves may tread
Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red,
Opening on Neptune with fair blessèd beams,
Turns into yellow gold his salt-green streams.
But, notwithstanding, haste; make no delay:
We may effect this business yet ere day.
[Exit OBERON.]
PUCK
Up and down, up and down;
I will lead them up and down:
I am fear’d in field and town.
Goblin, lead them up and down.
Here comes one.
[Enter LYSANDER.]
LYSANDER
Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak thou now.
PUCK
Here, villain; drawn and ready. Where art thou?
LYSANDER
I will be with thee straight.
PUCK
Follow me, then,
To plainer ground.
[Exit LYSANDER as following the voice.]
[Enter DEMETRIUS.]
DEMETRIUS
Lysander! speak again.
Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled?
Speak. In some bush? where dost thou hide thy head?
PUCK
Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars,
Telling the bushes that thou look’st for wars,
And wilt not come? Come, recreant; come, thou child;
I’ll whip thee with a rod: he is defiled
That draws a sword on thee.
DEMETRIUS
Yea, art thou there?
PUCK
Follow my voice; we’ll try no manhood here.
[Exeunt.]
[Re-enter LYSANDER.]
LYSANDER
He goes before me, and still dares me on;
When I come where he calls, then he is gone.
The villain is much lighter heeled than I:
I follow’d fast, but faster he did fly;
That fallen am I in dark uneven way,
And here will rest me. Come, thou gentle day!
[Lies down.]
For if but once thou show me thy grey light,
I’ll find Demetrius, and revenge this spite.
[Sleeps.]
[Re-enter PUCK and DEMETRIUS.]
PUCK
Ho, ho, ho, ho! Coward, why com’st thou not?
DEMETRIUS
Abide me, if thou dar’st; for well I wot
Thou runn’st before me, shifting every place;
And dar’st not stand, nor look me in the face.
Where art thou?
PUCK
Come hither; I am here.
DEMETRIUS
Nay, then, thou mock’st me.
Thou shalt buy this dear,
If ever I thy face by daylight see:
Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me
To measure out my length on this cold bed.—
By day’s approach look to be visited.
[Lies down and sleeps.]
[Enter HELENA.]
HELENA
O weary night, O long and tedious night,
Abate thy hours! Shine comforts from the east,
That I may back to Athens by daylight,
From these that my poor company detest:—
And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye,
Steal me awhile from mine own company.
[Sleeps.]
PUCK
Yet but three? Come one more;
Two of both kinds makes up four.
Here she comes, curst and sad:—
Cupid is a knavish lad,
Thus to make poor females mad.
[Enter HERMIA.]
HERMIA