The Taming of the Shrew. Уильям Шекспир

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          How now! who is it?

        SERVANT. An't please your honour, players

          That offer service to your lordship.

        LORD. Bid them come near.

          Now, fellows, you are welcome.

        PLAYERS. We thank your honour.

        LORD. Do you intend to stay with me to-night?

        PLAYER. So please your lordship to accept our duty.

        LORD. With all my heart. This fellow I remember

          Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest son;

          'Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well.

          I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part

          Was aptly fitted and naturally perform'd.

        PLAYER. I think 'twas Soto that your honour means.

        LORD. 'Tis very true; thou didst it excellent.

          Well, you are come to me in happy time,

          The rather for I have some sport in hand

          Wherein your cunning can assist me much.

          There is a lord will hear you play to-night;

          But I am doubtful of your modesties,

          Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour,

          For yet his honour never heard a play,

          You break into some merry passion

          And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,

          If you should smile, he grows impatient.

        PLAYER. Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves,

          Were he the veriest antic in the world.

        LORD. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,

          And give them friendly welcome every one;

          Let them want nothing that my house affords.

                                             Exit one with the PLAYERS

          Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew my page,

          And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady;

          That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber,

          And call him 'madam,' do him obeisance.

          Tell him from me- as he will win my love-

          He bear himself with honourable action,

          Such as he hath observ'd in noble ladies

          Unto their lords, by them accomplished;

          Such duty to the drunkard let him do,

          With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy,

          And say 'What is't your honour will command,

          Wherein your lady and your humble wife

          May show her duty and make known her love?'

          And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses,

          And with declining head into his bosom,

          Bid him shed tears, as being overjoyed

          To see her noble lord restor'd to health,

          Who for this seven years hath esteemed him

          No better than a poor and loathsome beggar.

          And if the boy have not a woman's gift

          To rain a shower of commanded tears,

          An onion will do well for such a shift,

          Which, in a napkin being close convey'd,

          Shall in despite enforce a watery eye.

          See this dispatch'd with all the haste thou canst;

          Anon I'll give thee more instructions. Exit a SERVINGMAN

          I know the boy will well usurp the grace,

          Voice, gait, and action, of a gentlewoman;

          I long to hear him call the drunkard 'husband';

          And how my men will stay themselves from laughter

          When they do homage to this simple peasant.

          I'll in to counsel them; haply my presence

          May well abate the over-merry spleen,

          Which otherwise would grow into extremes. Exeunt

        SLY. For God's sake, a pot of small ale.

        FIRST SERVANT. Will't please your lordship drink a cup of sack?

        SECOND SERVANT. Will't please your honour taste of these

      conserves?

        THIRD SERVANT. What raiment will your honour wear to-day?

        SLY. I am Christophero Sly; call not me 'honour' nor

      'lordship.' I

          ne'er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any

      conserves,

          give me conserves of beef. Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll

      wear,

          for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings

      than

          legs, nor no more shoes than feet- nay, sometime more feet

      than

          shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.

        LORD. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour!

          O, that a mighty man of such descent,

          Of such possessions, and so high esteem,

          Should be infused with so foul a spirit!

        SLY. What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old

          Sly's son of Burton Heath; by birth a pedlar, by education a

          cardmaker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present

          profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of

          Wincot, if she know me not; if she say I am not fourteen

      pence on

          the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lying'st knave

      in

          Christendom. What! I am not bestraught. [Taking a pot of

      ale]

          Here's-

        THIRD SERVANT. O, this it is that makes your lady mourn!

        SECOND СКАЧАТЬ