CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

Чтение книги онлайн.

       Your legges are yong: Ile tread these Flats. Consider,

       When you aboue perceiue me like a Crow,

       That it is Place, which lessen’s, and sets off,

       And you may then reuolue what Tales, I haue told you,

       Of Courts, of Princes; of the Tricks in Warre.

       This Seruice, is not Seruice; so being done,

       But being so allowed. To apprehend thus,

       Drawes vs a profit from all things we see:

       And often to our comfort, shall we finde

       The sharded-Beetle, in a safer hold

       Then is the full-wing’d Eagle. Oh this life,

       Is Nobler, then attending for a checke:

       Richer, then doing nothing for a Babe:

       Prouder, then rustling in vnpayd-for Silke:

       Such gaine the Cap of him, that makes him fine,

       Yet keepes his Booke vncros’d: no life to ours

       Gui. Out of your proofe you speak: we poore vnfledg’d

       Haue neuer wing’d from view o’th’ nest; nor knowes not

       What Ayre’s from home. Hap’ly this life is best,

       (If quiet life be best) sweeter to you

       That haue a sharper knowne. Well corresponding

       With your stiffe Age; but vnto vs, it is

       A Cell of Ignorance: trauailing a bed,

       A Prison, or a Debtor, that not dares

       To stride a limit

       Arui. What should we speake of

       When we are old as you? When we shall heare

       The Raine and winde beate darke December? How

       In this our pinching Caue, shall we discourse

       The freezing houres away? We haue seene nothing:

       We are beastly; subtle as the Fox for prey,

       Like warlike as the Wolfe, for what we eate:

       Our Valour is to chace what flyes: Our Cage

       We make a Quire, as doth the prison’d Bird,

       And sing our Bondage freely

       Bel. How you speake.

       Did you but know the Citties Vsuries,

       And felt them knowingly: the Art o’th’ Court,

       As hard to leaue, as keepe: whose top to climbe

       Is certaine falling: or so slipp’ry, that

       The feare’s as bad as falling. The toyle o’th’ Warre,

       A paine that onely seemes to seeke out danger

       I’th’ name of Fame, and Honor, which dyes i’th’ search,

       And hath as oft a sland’rous Epitaph,

       As Record of faire Act. Nay, many times

       Doth ill deserue, by doing well: what’s worse

       Must curt’sie at the Censure. Oh Boyes, this Storie

       The World may reade in me: My bodie’s mark’d

       With Roman Swords; and my report, was once

       First, with the best of Note. Cymbeline lou’d me,

       And when a Souldier was the Theame, my name

       Was not farre off: then was I as a Tree

       Whose boughes did bend with fruit. But in one night,

       A Storme, or Robbery (call it what you will)

       Shooke downe my mellow hangings: nay my Leaues,

       And left me bare to weather

       Gui. Vncertaine fauour Bel. My fault being nothing (as I haue told you oft)

       But that two Villaines, whose false Oathes preuayl’d

       Before my perfect Honor, swore to Cymbeline,

       I was Confederate with the Romanes: so

       Followed my Banishment, and this twenty yeeres,

       This Rocke, and these Demesnes, haue bene my World,

       Where I haue liu’d at honest freedome, payed

       More pious debts to Heauen, then in all

       The fore-end of my time. But, vp to’th’ Mountaines,

       This is not Hunters Language; he that strikes

       The Venison first, shall be the Lord o’th’ Feast,

       To him the other two shall minister,

       And we will feare no poyson, which attends

       In place of greater State:

       Ile meete you in the Valleyes.

       Exeunt.

       How hard it is to hide the sparkes of Nature?

       These Boyes know little they are Sonnes to’th’ King,

       Nor Cymbeline dreames that they are aliue.

       They thinke they are mine,

       And though train’d vp thus meanely

       I’th’ Caue, whereon the Bowe their thoughts do hit,

       The Roofes of Palaces, and Nature prompts them

       In simple and lowe things, to Prince it, much

       Beyond the tricke of others. This Paladour,

       The heyre of Cymbeline and Britaine, who

       The King his Father call’d Guiderius. Ioue,

       When on my three-foot stoole I sit, and tell

       The warlike feats I haue done, his spirits flye out

       Into my Story: say thus mine Enemy fell,

       And thus I set my foote on’s necke, euen then

       The Princely blood flowes in his Cheeke, he sweats,

       СКАЧАТЬ