Tragedies. King Lear. Othello. Julius Ceasar / Трагедии. Король Лир. Отелло. Юлий Цезарь. Уильям Шекспир

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      I am not well in health, and that is all.

      PORTIA

      Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health,

      He would embrace the means to come by it.

      BRUTUS

      Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed.

      PORTIA

      Is Brutus sick? and is it physical

      To walk unbraced and suck up the humours

      Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick,

      And will he steal out of his wholesome bed,

      To dare the vile contagion of the night

      And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air

      To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus;

      You have some sick offence within your mind,

      Which, by the right and virtue of my place,

      I ought to know of: and, upon my knees,

      I charm you, by my once-commended beauty,

      By all your vows of love and that great vow

      Which did incorporate and make us one,

      That you unfold to me, yourself, your half,

      Why you are heavy, and what men to-night

      Have had to resort to you: for here have been

      Some six or seven, who did hide their faces

      Even from darkness.

      BRUTUS

      Kneel not, gentle Portia.

      PORTIA

      I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus.

      Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,

      Is it excepted I should know no secrets

      That appertain to you? Am I yourself

      But, as it were, in sort or limitation,

      To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,

      And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs

      Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,

      Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife.

      BRUTUS

      You are my true and honourable wife,

      As dear to me as are the ruddy drops

      That visit my sad heart

      PORTIA

      If this were true, then should I know this secret.

      I grant I am a woman; but withal

      A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife:

      I grant I am a woman; but withal

      A woman well-reputed, Cato’s daughter.

      Think you I am no stronger than my sex,

      Being so father’d and so husbanded?

      Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose ’em:

      I have made strong proof of my constancy,

      Giving myself a voluntary wound

      Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience.

      And not my husband’s secrets?

      BRUTUS

      O ye gods,

      Render me worthy of this noble wife!

      Knocking within

      Hark, hark! one knocks: Portia, go in awhile;

      And by and by thy bosom shall partake

      The secrets of my heart.

      All my engagements I will construe to thee,

      All the charactery of my sad brows:

      Leave me with haste.

      Exit PORTIA

      Lucius, who’s that knocks?

      Re-enter LUCIUS with LIGARIUS

      LUCIUS

      He is a sick man that would speak with you.

      BRUTUS

      Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of.

      Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius! how?

      LIGARIUS

      Vouchsafe good morrow from a feeble tongue.

      BRUTUS

      O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius,

      To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick!

      LIGARIUS

      I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand

      Any exploit worthy the name of honour.

      BRUTUS

      Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius,

      Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.

      LIGARIUS

      By all the gods that Romans bow before,

      I here discard my sickness! Soul of Rome!

      Brave son, derived from honourable loins!

      Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up

      My mortified spirit. Now bid me run,

      And I will strive with things impossible;

      Yea, get the better of them. What’s to do?

      BRUTUS

      A piece of work that will make sick men whole.

      LIGARIUS

      But are not some whole that we must make sick?

      BRUTUS

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