CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

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       Thy mind to her, is now as lowe, as were

       Thy Fortunes. How? That I should murther her,

       Vpon the Loue, and Truth, and Vowes; which I

       Haue made to thy command? I her? Her blood?

       If it be so, to do good seruice, neuer

       Let me be counted seruiceable. How looke I,

       That I should seeme to lacke humanity,

       So much as this Fact comes to? Doo’t: The Letter.

       That I haue sent her, by her owne command,

       Shall giue thee opportunitie. Oh damn’d paper,

       Blacke as the Inke that’s on thee: senselesse bauble,

       Art thou a Foedarie for this Act; and look’st

       So Virgin-like without? Loe here she comes.

       Enter Imogen.

       I am ignorant in what I am commanded Imo. How now Pisanio?

       Pis. Madam, heere is a Letter from my Lord

       Imo. Who, thy Lord? That is my Lord Leonatus?

       Oh, learn’d indeed were that Astronomer

       That knew the Starres, as I his Characters,

       Heel’d lay the Future open. You good Gods,

       Let what is heere contain’d, rellish of Loue,

       Of my Lords health, of his content: yet not

       That we two are asunder, let that grieue him;

       Some griefes are medcinable, that is one of them,

       For it doth physicke Loue, of his content,

       All but in that. Good Wax, thy leaue: blest be

       You Bees that make these Lockes of counsaile. Louers,

       And men in dangerous Bondes pray not alike,

       Though Forfeytours you cast in prison, yet

       You claspe young Cupids Tables: good Newes Gods.

       Iustice and your Fathers wrath (should he take me in his

       Dominion) could not be so cruell to me, as you: (oh the deerest

       of Creatures) would euen renew me with your eyes. Take

       notice that I am in Cambria at Milford-Hauen: what your

       owne Loue, will out of this aduise you, follow. So he wishes you

       all happinesse, that remaines loyall to his Vow, and your

       encreasing

       in Loue. Leonatus Posthumus.

       Oh for a Horse with wings: Hear’st thou Pisanio?

       He is at Milford-Hauen: Read, and tell me

       How farre ‘tis thither. If one of meane affaires

       May plod it in a weeke, why may not I

       Glide thither in a day? Then true Pisanio,

       Who long’st like me, to see thy Lord; who long’st

       (Oh let me bate) but not like me: yet long’st

       But in a fainter kinde. Oh not like me:

       For mine’s beyond, beyond: say, and speake thicke

       (Loues Counsailor should fill the bores of hearing,

       To’th’ smothering of the Sense) how farre it is

       To this same blessed Milford. And by’th’ way

       Tell me how Wales was made so happy, as

       T’ inherite such a Hauen. But first of all,

       How we may steale from hence: and for the gap

       That we shall make in Time, from our hence-going,

       And our returne, to excuse: but first, how get hence.

       Why should excuse be borne or ere begot?

       Weele talke of that heereafter. Prythee speake,

       How many store of Miles may we well rid

       Twixt houre, and houre?

       Pis. One score ‘twixt Sun, and Sun,

       Madam’s enough for you: and too much too

       Imo. Why, one that rode to’s Execution Man,

       Could neuer go so slow: I haue heard of Riding wagers,

       Where Horses haue bin nimbler then the Sands

       That run i’th’ Clocks behalfe. But this is Foolrie,

       Go, bid my Woman faigne a Sicknesse, say

       She’le home to her Father; and prouide me presently

       A Riding Suit: No costlier then would fit

       A Franklins Huswife

       Pisa. Madam, you’re best consider Imo. I see before me (Man) nor heere, nor heere;

       Nor what ensues but haue a Fog in them

       That I cannot looke through. Away, I prythee,

       Do as I bid thee: There’s no more to say:

       Accessible is none but Milford way.

       Exeunt.