Cymbeline. Уильям Шекспир

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Cymbeline - Уильям Шекспир


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thither write (my Queene)

      And with mine eyes, Ile drinke the words you send,

      Though Inke be made of Gall.

      Enter Queene.

        Qu. Be briefe, I pray you:

      If the King come, I shall incurre, I know not

      How much of his displeasure: yet Ile moue him

      To walke this way: I neuer do him wrong,

      But he do's buy my Iniuries, to be Friends:

      Payes deere for my offences

         Post. Should we be taking leaue

      As long a terme as yet we haue to liue,

      The loathnesse to depart, would grow: Adieu

         Imo. Nay, stay a little:

      Were you but riding forth to ayre your selfe,

      Such parting were too petty. Looke heere (Loue)

      This Diamond was my Mothers; take it (Heart)

      But keepe it till you woo another Wife,

      When Imogen is dead

         Post. How, how? Another?

      You gentle Gods, giue me but this I haue,

      And seare vp my embracements from a next,

      With bonds of death. Remaine, remaine thou heere,

      While sense can keepe it on: And sweetest, fairest,

      As I (my poore selfe) did exchange for you

      To your so infinite losse; so in our trifles

      I still winne of you. For my sake weare this,

      It is a Manacle of Loue, Ile place it

      Vpon this fayrest Prisoner

         Imo. O the Gods!

      When shall we see againe?

      Enter Cymbeline, and Lords.

      Post. Alacke, the King

         Cym. Thou basest thing, auoyd hence, from my sight:

      If after this command thou fraught the Court

      With thy vnworthinesse, thou dyest. Away,

      Thou'rt poyson to my blood

         Post. The Gods protect you,

      And blesse the good Remainders of the Court:

      I am gone

         Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death

      More sharpe then this is

         Cym. O disloyall thing,

      That should'st repayre my youth, thou heap'st

      A yeares age on mee

         Imo. I beseech you Sir,

      Harme not your selfe with your vexation,

      I am senselesse of your Wrath; a Touch more rare

      Subdues all pangs, all feares

         Cym. Past Grace? Obedience?

        Imo. Past hope, and in dispaire, that way past Grace

         Cym. That might'st haue had

      The sole Sonne of my Queene

         Imo. O blessed, that I might not: I chose an Eagle,

      And did auoyd a Puttocke

         Cym. Thou took'st a Begger, would'st haue made my

      Throne, a Seate for basenesse

      Imo. No, I rather added a lustre to it

         Cym. O thou vilde one!

        Imo. Sir,

      It is your fault that I haue lou'd Posthumus:

      You bred him as my Play-fellow, and he is

      A man, worth any woman: Ouer-buyes mee

      Almost the summe he payes

         Cym. What? art thou mad?

        Imo. Almost Sir: Heauen restore me: would I were

      A Neat-heards Daughter, and my Leonatus

      Our Neighbour-Shepheards Sonne.

      Enter Queene.

        Cym. Thou foolish thing;

      They were againe together: you haue done

      Not after our command. Away with her,

      And pen her vp

         Qu. Beseech your patience: Peace

      Deere Lady daughter, peace. Sweet Soueraigne,

      Leaue vs to our selues, and make your self some comfort

      Out of your best aduice

         Cym. Nay, let her languish

      A drop of blood a day, and being aged

      Dye of this Folly.

      Enter.

      Enter Pisanio.

        Qu. Fye, you must giue way:

      Heere is your Seruant. How now Sir? What newes?

        Pisa. My Lord your Sonne, drew on my Master

         Qu. Hah?

      No harme I trust is done?

        Pisa. There might haue beene,

      But that my Master rather plaid, then fought,

      And had no helpe of Anger: they were parted

      By Gentlemen, at hand

      Qu. I am very glad on't

         Imo. Your Son's my Fathers friend, he takes his part

      To draw vpon an Exile. O braue Sir,

      I would they were in Affricke both together,

      My selfe by with a Needle, that I might pricke

      The goer backe. Why came you from your Master?

        Pisa. On his command: he would not suffer mee

      To bring him to the Hauen: left these Notes

      Of what commands I should be subiect too,

      When't pleas'd you to employ me

         Qu. This hath beene

      Your faithfull Seruant: I dare lay mine Honour

      He will remaine so

      Pisa. I humbly thanke your Highnesse

      Qu. Pray walke a-while

         Imo. About some halfe houre hence,

      Pray you speake with me;

      You shall (at least) go see my Lord aboord.

      For this time leaue me.

      Exeunt.

Scena Tertia

      Enter Clotten, and two Lords.

      1. Sir, I would aduise you to shift a Shirt; the Violence of Action hath made you reek as a Sacrifice: where ayre comes out, ayre comes in: There's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent

         Clot. If my Shirt were bloody, then to shift it.

      Haue I hurt him?

        2 No faith: not so much


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