Cymbeline. Уильям Шекспир
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not for any standers by to curtall his oathes. Ha?
2. No my Lord; nor crop the eares of them
Clot. Whorson dog: I gaue him satisfaction? would
he had bin one of my Ranke
2. To haue smell'd like a Foole
Clot. I am not vext more at any thing in th' earth: a pox on't I had rather not be so Noble as I am: they dare not fight with me, because of the Queene my Mother: euery Iacke-Slaue hath his belly full of Fighting, and I must go vp and downe like a Cock, that no body can match
2. You are Cocke and Capon too, and you crow
Cock, with your combe on
Clot. Sayest thou?
2. It is not fit your Lordship should vndertake euery
Companion, that you giue offence too
Clot. No, I know that: but it is fit I should commit
offence to my inferiors
2. I, it is fit for your Lordship onely
Clot. Why so I say
1. Did you heere of a Stranger that's come to Court
night?
Clot. A Stranger, and I not know on't?
2. He's a strange Fellow himselfe, and knowes it not
1. There's an Italian come, and 'tis thought one of
Leonatus Friends
Clot. Leonatus? A banisht Rascall; and he's another,
whatsoeuer he be. Who told you of this Stranger?
1. One of your Lordships Pages
Clot. Is it fit I went to looke vpon him? Is there no
derogation in't?
2. You cannot derogate my Lord
Clot. Not easily I thinke
2. You are a Foole graunted, therefore your Issues
being foolish do not derogate
Clot. Come, Ile go see this Italian: what I haue lost
to day at Bowles, Ile winne to night of him. Come: go
2. Ile attend your Lordship.
Enter.
That such a craftie Diuell as is his Mother
Should yeild the world this Asse: A woman, that
Beares all downe with her Braine, and this her Sonne,
Cannot take two from twenty for his heart,
And leaue eighteene. Alas poore Princesse,
Thou diuine Imogen, what thou endur'st,
Betwixt a Father by thy Step-dame gouern'd,
A Mother hourely coyning plots: A Wooer,
More hatefull then the foule expulsion is
Of thy deere Husband. Then that horrid Act
Of the diuorce, heel'd make the Heauens hold firme
The walls of thy deere Honour. Keepe vnshak'd
That Temple thy faire mind, that thou maist stand
T' enioy thy banish'd Lord: and this great Land.
Exeunt.
Enter Imogen, in her Bed, and a Lady.
Imo. Who's there? My woman: Helene?
La. Please you Madam
Imo. What houre is it?
Lady. Almost midnight, Madam
Imo. I haue read three houres then:
Mine eyes are weake,
Fold downe the leafe where I haue left: to bed.
Take not away the Taper, leaue it burning:
And if thou canst awake by foure o'th' clock,
I prythee call me: Sleepe hath ceiz'd me wholly.
To your protection I commend me, Gods,
From Fayries, and the Tempters of the night,
Guard me beseech yee.
Sleepes.
Iachimo from the Trunke.
Iach. The Crickets sing, and mans ore-labor'd sense
Repaires it selfe by rest: Our Tarquine thus
Did softly presse the Rushes, ere he waken'd
The Chastitie he wounded. Cytherea,
How brauely thou becom'st thy Bed; fresh Lilly,
And whiter then the Sheetes: that I might touch,
But kisse, one kisse. Rubies vnparagon'd,
How deerely they doo't: 'Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the Chamber thus: the Flame o'th' Taper
Bowes toward her, and would vnder-peepe her lids.
To see th' inclosed Lights, now Canopied
Vnder these windowes, White and Azure lac'd
With Blew of Heauens owne tinct. But my designe.
To note the Chamber, I will write all downe,
Such, and such pictures: There the window, such
Th' adornement of her Bed; the Arras, Figures,
Why such, and such: and the Contents o'th' Story.
Ah, but some naturall notes about her Body,
Aboue ten thousand meaner Moueables
Would testifie, t' enrich mine Inuentorie.
O sleepe, thou Ape of death, lye dull vpon her,
And be her Sense but as a Monument,
Thus in a Chappell lying. Come off, come off;
As slippery as the Gordian-knot was hard.
'Tis mine, and this will witnesse outwardly,
As strongly as the Conscience do's within:
To'th' madding of her Lord. On her left brest
A mole Cinque-spotted: Like the Crimson drops
I'th' bottome of a Cowslippe. Heere's a Voucher,
Stronger then euer Law could make; this Secret
Will force him thinke I haue pick'd the lock, and t'ane
The treasure of her Honour. No more: to what end?
Why should I write this downe, that's riueted,
Screw'd to my memorie. She hath bin reading late,
The Tale of Tereus, heere the leaffe's turn'd downe
Where Philomele gaue vp. I haue enough,
To'th' Truncke againe, and shut the spring of it.
Swift, swift, you Dragons of the night, that dawning
May beare the Rauens eye: I lodge in feare,
Though this a heauenly Angell: hell is heere.
Clocke strikes
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