Pericles, Prince of Tyre. Уильям Шекспир

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      Antiochus, I thank thee, who hath taught

      My frail mortality to know itself,

      And by those fearful objects to prepare

      This body, like to them, to what I must;

      For death remember'd should be like a mirror,

      Who tells us life 's but breath, to trust it error.

      I'll make my will then, and, as sick men do

      Who know the world, see heaven, but, feeling woe,

      Gripe not at earthly joys as erst they did;

      So I bequeath a happy peace to you

      And all good men, as every prince should do;

      My riches to the earth from whence they came;

      But my unspotted fire of love to you.

      Thus ready for the way of life or death,

      I wait the sharpest blow, Antiochus.

      Scorning advice, read the conclusion, then:

      Which read and not expounded, 'tis decreed,

      As these before thee thou thyself shalt bleed.

      Of all say'd yet, mayst thou prove prosperous!

      Of all say'd yet, I wish thee happiness!

      Like a bold champion, I assume THe lists,

      Nor ask advice of any other thought

      But faithfulness and courage.

      I am no viper, yet I feed

      On mother's flesh which did me breed.

      I sought a husband, in which labour

      I found that kindness in a father:

      He's father, son, and husband mild;

      I mother, wife, and yet his child.

      How they may be, and yet in two,

      As you will live, resolve it you.

      Sharp physic is the last: but, O you powers

      That give heaven countless eyes to view men's acts,

      Why cloud they not their sights perpetually,

      If this be true, which makes me pale to read it?

      Fair glass of light, I loved you, and could still,

      Were not this glorious casket stored with ill:

      But I must tell you, now my thoughts revolt;

      For he's no man on whom perfections wait

      That, knowing sin within, will touch the gate,

      You are a fair viol, and your sense the strings;

      Who, finger'd to make man his lawful music,

      Would draw heaven down, and all the gods to hearken;

      But being play'd upon before your time,

      Hell only danceth at so harsh a chime.

      Good sooth, I care not for you.

      Prince Pericles, touch not, upon thy life,

      For that's an article within our law,

      As dangerous as the rest. Tour time's expired:

      Either expound now, or receive your sentence.

      Great king,

      Few love to hear the sins they love to act;

      'Twould braid yourself too near for me to tell it.

      Who has a book of all that monarchs do,

      He's more secure to keep it shut than shown:

      For vice repeated is like the wandering wind,

      Blows dust in others' eyes, to spread itself;

      And yet the end of all is bought thus dear,

      The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear

      To stop the air would hurt them. The blind mole casts

      Copp'd hills towards heaven, to tell the earth is throng'd

      By man's oppression; and the poor worm doth die for't.

      Kind are earth's gods; in vice their law's their will;

      And if Jove stray, who dares say Jove doth ill?

      It is enough you know; and it is fit,

      What being more known grows worse, to smother it.

      All love the womb that their first bred,

      Then give my tongue like leave to love my head.

      Heaven, that I had thy head! he has found the meaning:

      But I will gloze with him. – Young prince of Tyre.

      Though by the tenour of our strict edict,

      Your exposition misinterpreting,

      We might proceed to cancel of your days;

      Yet hope, succeeding from so fair a tree

      As your fair self, doth tune us otherwise:

      Forty days longer we do respite you;

      If by which time our secret be undone,

      This mercy shows we'll joy in such a son:

      And until then your entertain shall be

      As doth befit our honour and your worth.

      How courtesy would seem to cover sin,

      When what is done is like an hypocrite,

      The which is good in nothing but in sight!

      If it be true that I interpret false,

      Then were it certain you were not so bad

      As with foul incest to abuse your soul;

      Where now you're both a father and a son,

      By your untimely claspings with your child,

      Which pleasure fits an husband, not a father;

      And she an eater of her mother's flesh,

      By the defiling of her parent's bed;

      And both like serpents are, who though they feed

      On sweetest flowers, yet they poison breed.

      Antioch, farewell! for wisdom sees, those men

      Blush not in actions blacker than the night,

      Will shun no course to keep them from the light.

      One sin, I know, another doth provoke;

      Murder's as near to lust as flame to smoke:

      Poison and treason are the hands of sin,

      Ay, and the targets, to put off the shame:

      Then, lest my life be cropp'd to keep you clear,

      By flight I 'II shun the danger which I fear.