CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

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       That acts my words. The yonger Brother Cadwall,

       Once Aruiragus, in as like a figure

       Strikes life into my speech, and shewes much more

       His owne conceyuing. Hearke, the Game is rows’d,

       Oh Cymbeline, Heauen and my Conscience knowes

       Thou didd’st vniustly banish me: whereon

       At three, and two yeeres old, I stole these Babes,

       Thinking to barre thee of Succession, as

       Thou refts me of my Lands. Euriphile,

       Thou was’t their Nurse, they took thee for their mother,

       And euery day do honor to her graue:

       My selfe Belarius, that am Mergan call’d

       They take for Naturall Father. The Game is vp.

       Enter.

      SCENE IV.

       Enter Pisanio and Imogen.

       Imo. Thou told’st me when we came fro[m] horse, y place

       Was neere at hand: Ne’re long’d my Mother so

       To see me first, as I haue now. Pisanio, Man:

       Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind

       That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh

       From th’ inward of thee? One, but painted thus

       Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d

       Beyond selfe-explication. Put thy selfe

       Into a hauiour of lesse feare, ere wildnesse

       Vanquish my stayder Senses. What’s the matter?

       Why render’st thou that Paper to me, with

       A looke vntender? If’t be Summer Newes

       Smile too’t before: if Winterly, thou need’st

       But keepe that count’nance stil. My Husbands hand?

       That Drug-damn’d Italy, hath out-craftied him,

       And hee’s at some hard point. Speake man, thy Tongue

       May take off some extreamitie, which to reade

       Would be euen mortall to me

       Pis. Please you reade,

       And you shall finde me (wretched man) a thing

       The most disdain’d of Fortune

       Imogen reades. Thy Mistris (Pisanio) hath plaide the Strumpet in my Bed: the Testimonies whereof, lyes bleeding in me. I speak not out of weake Surmises, but from proofe as strong as my greefe, and as certaine as I expect my Reuenge. That part, thou (Pisanio) must acte for me, if thy Faith be not tainted with the breach of hers; let thine owne hands take away her life: I shall giue thee opportunity at Milford Hauen. She hath my Letter for the purpose; where, if thou feare to strike, and to make mee certaine it is done, thou art the Pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyall Pis. What shall I need to draw my Sword, the Paper

       Hath cut her throat alreadie? No, ‘tis Slander,

       Whose edge is sharper then the Sword, whose tongue

       Out-venomes all the Wormes of Nyle, whose breath

       Rides on the posting windes, and doth belye

       All corners of the World. Kings, Queenes, and States,

       Maides, Matrons, nay the Secrets of the Graue

       This viperous slander enters. What cheere, Madam?

       Imo. False to his Bed? What is it to be false?

       To lye in watch there, and to thinke on him?

       To weepe ‘twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge Nature,

       To breake it with a fearfull dreame of him,

       And cry my selfe awake? That’s false to’s bed? Is it?

       Pisa. Alas good Lady

       Imo. I false? Thy Conscience witnesse: Iachimo,

       Thou didd’st accuse him of Incontinencie,

       Thou then look’dst like a Villaine: now, me thinkes

       Thy fauours good enough. Some Iay of Italy

       (Whose mother was her painting) hath betraid him:

       Poore I am stale, a Garment out of fashion,

       And for I am richer then to hang by th’ walles,

       I must be ript: To peeces with me: Oh!

       Mens Vowes are womens Traitors. All good seeming

       By thy reuolt (oh Husband) shall be thought

       Put on for Villainy; not borne where’t growes,

       But worne a Baite for Ladies

       Pisa. Good Madam, heare me Imo. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas,

       Were in his time thought false: and Synons weeping

       Did scandall many a holy teare: tooke pitty

       From most true wretchednesse. So thou, Posthumus

       Wilt lay the Leauen on all proper men;

       Goodly, and gallant, shall be false and periur’d

       From thy great faile: Come Fellow, be thou honest,

       Do thou thy Masters bidding. When thou seest him,

       A little witnesse my obedience. Looke

       I draw the Sword my selfe, take it, and hit

       The innocent Mansion of my Loue (my Heart:)

       Feare not, ‘tis empty of all things, but Greefe:

       Thy Master is not there, who was indeede

       The riches of it. Do his bidding, strike,

       Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause;

       But now thou seem’st a Coward

       Pis. Hence vile Instrument,

       Thou shalt not damne my hand

       Imo. Why, I must dye:

       And if I do not by thy hand, thou СКАЧАТЬ