The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Уильям Шекспир

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       I may advance my Streamer, and by thee,

       Be stil’d the Lord o’th day: give me, great Mars,

       Some token of thy pleasure.

       [Here they fall on their faces as formerly, and there is heard

       clanging of Armor, with a short Thunder as the burst of a

       Battaile,

       whereupon they all rise and bow to the Altar.]

       O Great Corrector of enormous times,

       Shaker of ore-rank States, thou grand decider

       Of dustie and old tytles, that healst with blood

       The earth when it is sicke, and curst the world

       O’th pluresie of people; I doe take

       Thy signes auspiciously, and in thy name

       To my designe march boldly. Let us goe. [Exeunt.]

       [Enter Palamon and his Knights, with the former observance.]

       PALAMON.

       Our stars must glister with new fire, or be

       To daie extinct; our argument is love,

       Which if the goddesse of it grant, she gives

       Victory too: then blend your spirits with mine,

       You, whose free noblenesse doe make my cause

       Your personall hazard; to the goddesse Venus

       Commend we our proceeding, and implore

       Her power unto our partie. [Here they kneele as formerly.]

       Haile, Soveraigne Queene of secrets, who hast power

       To call the feircest Tyrant from his rage,

       And weepe unto a Girle; that ha’st the might,

       Even with an ey-glance, to choke Marsis Drom

       And turne th’allarme to whispers; that canst make

       A Criple florish with his Crutch, and cure him

       Before Apollo; that may’st force the King

       To be his subjects vassaile, and induce

       Stale gravitie to daunce; the pould Bachelour—

       Whose youth, like wonton Boyes through Bonfyres,

       Have skipt thy flame—at seaventy thou canst catch

       And make him, to the scorne of his hoarse throate,

       Abuse yong laies of love: what godlike power

       Hast thou not power upon? To Phoebus thou

       Add’st flames hotter then his; the heavenly fyres

       Did scortch his mortall Son, thine him; the huntresse

       All moyst and cold, some say, began to throw

       Her Bow away, and sigh. Take to thy grace

       Me, thy vowd Souldier, who doe beare thy yoke

       As t’wer a wreath of Roses, yet is heavier

       Then Lead it selfe, stings more than Nettles.

       I have never beene foule mouthd against thy law,

       Nev’r reveald secret, for I knew none—would not,

       Had I kend all that were; I never practised

       Vpon mans wife, nor would the Libells reade

       Of liberall wits; I never at great feastes

       Sought to betray a Beautie, but have blush’d

       At simpring Sirs that did; I have beene harsh

       To large Confessors, and have hotly ask’d them

       If they had Mothers: I had one, a woman,

       And women t’wer they wrong’d. I knew a man

       Of eightie winters, this I told them, who

       A Lasse of foureteene brided; twas thy power

       To put life into dust; the aged Crampe

       Had screw’d his square foote round,

       The Gout had knit his fingers into knots,

       Torturing Convulsions from his globie eyes,

       Had almost drawne their spheeres, that what was life

       In him seem’d torture: this Anatomie

       Had by his yong faire pheare a Boy, and I

       Beleev’d it was him, for she swore it was,

       And who would not beleeve her? briefe, I am

       To those that prate and have done no Companion;

       To those that boast and have not a defyer;

       To those that would and cannot a Rejoycer.

       Yea, him I doe not love, that tells close offices

       The fowlest way, nor names concealements in

       The boldest language: such a one I am,

       And vow that lover never yet made sigh

       Truer then I. O, then, most soft, sweet goddesse,

       Give me the victory of this question, which

       Is true loves merit, and blesse me with a signe

       Of thy great pleasure.

       [Here Musicke is heard, Doves are seene to flutter; they fall

       againe upon their faces, then on their knees.]

       PALAMON.

       O thou, that from eleven to ninetie raign’st

       In mortall bosomes, whose chase is this world,

       And we in heards thy game: I give thee thankes

       For this faire Token, which, being layd unto

       Mine innocent true heart, armes in assurance [They bow.]

       My body to this businesse. Let us rise

       And bow before the goddesse: Time comes on. [Exeunt.]

       [Still Musicke of Records.]

       [Enter СКАЧАТЬ