The Collected Works of Oscar Wilde: 250+ Titles in One Edition. Оскар Уайльд

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СКАЧАТЬ His cycle round her beauty.

      SIMONE: You flatter her.

       She has her virtues as most women have,

       But beauty in a gem she may not wear.

       It is better so, perchance.

       Well, my dear lord,

       If you will not draw melodies from your lute

       To charm my moody and o’er-troubled soul

       You’ll drink with me at least? [Sees table.]

       Your place is laid.

       Fetch me a stool, Bianca. Close the shutters.

       Set the great bar across. I would not have

       The curious world with its small prying eyes

       To peer upon our pleasure.

       Now, my lord,

       Give us a toast from a full brimming cup. [Starts back.]

       What is this stain upon the cloth? It looks

       As purple as a wound upon Christ’s side.

       Wine merely is it? I have heard it said

       When wine is spilt blood is spilt also,

       But that’s a foolish tale.

       My lord, I trust

       My grape is to your liking? The wine of Naples

       Is fiery like its mountains. Our Tuscan vineyards

       Yield a more wholesome juice.

      GUIDO: I like it well,

       Honest Simone; and, with your good leave,

       Will toast the fair Bianca when her lips

       Have like red rose-leaves floated on this cup

       And left its vintage sweeter. Taste, Bianca. [BIANCA drinks.]

       Oh, all the honey of Hyblean bees,

       Matched with this draught were bitter!

       Good Simone,

       You do not share the feast.

      SIMONE: It is strange, my lord,

       I cannot eat or drink with you, tonight.

       Some humour, or some fever in my blood,

       At other seasons temperate, or some thought

       That like an adder creeps from point to point,

       That like a madman crawls from cell to cell,

       Poisons my palate and makes appetite

       A loathing, not a longing. [Goes aside.]

      GUIDO: Sweet Bianca,

       This common chapman wearies me with words.

       I must go hence. Tomorrow I will come.

       Tell me the hour.

      BIANCA. Come with the youngest dawn!

       Until I see you all my life is vain.

      GUIDO: Ah! loose the falling midnight of your hair,

       And in those stars, your eyes, let me behold

       Mine image, as in mirrors. Dear Bianca,

       Though it be but a shadow, keep me there,

       Nor gaze at anything that does not show

       Some symbol of my semblance. I am jealous

       Of what your vision feasts on.

      BIANCA: Oh! be sure

       Your image will be with me always. Dear

       Love can translate the very meanest thing

       Into a sign of sweet remembrances.

       But come before the lark with its shrill song

       Has waked a world of dreamers. I will stand

       Upon the balcony.

      GUIDO: And by a ladder

       Wrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with pearls

       Will come to meet me. White foot after foot,

       Like snow upon a rose-tree.

      BIANCA: As you will.

       You know that I am yours for love or Death.

      GUIDO: Simone, I must go to mine own house.

      SIMONE: So soon? Why should you? The great Duomo’s bell

       Has not yet tolled its midnight, and the watchmen

       Who with their hollow horns mock the pale moon,

       Lie drowsy in their towers. Stay awhile.

       I fear we may not see you here again,

       And that fear saddens my too simple heart.

      GUIDO: Be not afraid, Simone. I will stand

       Most constant in my friendship, But tonight

       I go to mine own home, and that at once.

       Tomorrow, sweet Bianca.

      SIMONE: Well, well, so be it.

       I would have wished for fuller converse with you,

       My new friend, my honourable guest,

       But that it seems may not be.

       And besides

       I do not doubt your father waits for you,

       Wearying for voice or footstep. You, I think,

       Are his one child? He has no other child.

       You are the gracious pillar of his house,

       The flower of a garden full of weeds.

       Your father’s nephews do not love him well

       So run folks’ tongues in Florence. I meant but that.

       Men say they envy your inheritance

       And look upon your vineyards with fierce eyes

       As Ahab looked on Naboth’s goodly field.

       But that is but the chatter of a town

       СКАЧАТЬ