Twelfth Night; Or, What You Will. Уильям Шекспир

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      DUKE. If music be the food of love, play on,

          Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,

          The appetite may sicken and so die.

          That strain again! It had a dying fall;

          O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound

          That breathes upon a bank of violets,

          Stealing and giving odour! Enough, no more;

          'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

          O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!

          That, notwithstanding thy capacity

          Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,

          Of what validity and pitch soe'er,

          But falls into abatement and low price

          Even in a minute. So full of shapes is fancy,

          That it alone is high fantastical.

        CURIO. Will you go hunt, my lord?

        DUKE. What, Curio?

        CURIO. The hart.

        DUKE. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have.

          O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,

          Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence!

          That instant was I turn'd into a hart,

          And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,

          E'er since pursue me.

      How now! what news from her?

        VALENTINE. So please my lord, I might not be admitted,

          But from her handmaid do return this answer:

          The element itself, till seven years' heat,

          Shall not behold her face at ample view;

          But like a cloistress she will veiled walk,

          And water once a day her chamber round

          With eye-offending brine; all this to season

          A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh

          And lasting in her sad remembrance.

        DUKE. O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame

          To pay this debt of love but to a brother,

          How will she love when the rich golden shaft

          Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else

          That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,

          These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill'd,

          Her sweet perfections, with one self king!

          Away before me to sweet beds of flow'rs:

          Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bow'rs.

                                                                Exeunt

      VIOLA. What country, friends, is this?

        CAPTAIN. This is Illyria, lady.

        VIOLA. And what should I do in Illyria?

          My brother he is in Elysium.

          Perchance he is not drown'd- what think you, sailors?

        CAPTAIN. It is perchance that you yourself were saved.

        VIOLA. O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.

        CAPTAIN. True, madam, and, to comfort you with chance,

          Assure yourself, after our ship did split,

          When you, and those poor number saved with you,

          Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,

          Most provident in peril, bind himself-

          Courage and hope both teaching him the practice-

          To a strong mast that liv'd upon the sea;

          Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,

          I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves

          So long as I could see.

        VIOLA. For saying so, there's gold.

          Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,

          Whereto thy speech serves for authority,

          The like of him. Know'st thou this country?

        CAPTAIN. Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born

          Not three hours' travel from this very place.

        VIOLA. Who governs here?

        CAPTAIN. A noble duke, in nature as in name.

        VIOLA. What is his name?

        CAPTAIN. Orsino.

        VIOLA. Orsino! I have heard my father name him.

          He was a bachelor then.

        CAPTAIN. And so is now, or was so very late;

          For but a month ago I went from hence,

          And then 'twas fresh in murmur- as, you know,

          What great ones do the less will prattle of-

          That he did seek the love of fair Olivia.

        VIOLA. What's she?

        CAPTAIN. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count

          That СКАЧАТЬ