CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

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       So tender of rebukes, that words are stroke;

       And strokes death to her.

       Enter a Messenger.

       Cym. Where is she Sir? How

       Can her contempt be answer’d?

       Mes. Please you Sir,

       Her Chambers are all lock’d, and there’s no answer

       That will be giuen to’th’ lowd of noise, we make

       Qu. My Lord, when last I went to visit her,

       She pray’d me to excuse her keeping close,

       Whereto constrain’d by her infirmitie,

       She should that dutie leaue vnpaide to you

       Which dayly she was bound to proffer: this

       She wish’d me to make knowne: but our great Court

       Made me too blame in memory

       Cym. Her doores lock’d?

       Not seene of late? Grant Heauens, that which I

       Feare, proue false.

       Enter.

       Qu. Sonne, I say, follow the King Clot. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old Seruant

       I haue not seene these two dayes.

       Enter.

       Qu. Go, looke after:

       Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus,

       He hath a Drugge of mine: I pray, his absence

       Proceed by swallowing that. For he beleeues

       It is a thing most precious. But for her,

       Where is she gone? Haply dispaire hath seiz’d her:

       Or wing’d with feruour of her loue, she’s flowne

       To her desir’d Posthumus: gone she is,

       To death, or to dishonor, and my end

       Can make good vse of either. Shee being downe,

       I haue the placing of the Brittish Crowne.

       Enter Cloten.

       How now, my Sonne?

       Clot. ‘Tis certaine she is fled:

       Go in and cheere the King, he rages, none

       Dare come about him

       Qu. All the better: may

       This night forestall him of the comming day.

       Exit Qu.

       Clo. I loue, and hate her: for she’s Faire and Royall,

       And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite

       Then Lady, Ladies, Woman, from euery one

       The best she hath, and she of all compounded

       Out-selles them all. I loue her therefore, but

       Disdaining me, and throwing Fauours on

       The low Posthumus, slanders so her iudgement,

       That what’s else rare, is choak’d: and in that point

       I will conclude to hate her, nay indeede,

       To be reueng’d vpon her. For, when Fooles shall-

       Enter Pisanio.

       Who is heere? What, are you packing sirrah?

       Come hither: Ah you precious Pandar, Villaine,

       Where is thy Lady? In a word, or else

       Thou art straightway with the Fiends

       Pis. Oh, good my Lord

       Clo. Where is thy Lady? Or, by Iupiter,

       I will not aske againe. Close Villaine,

       Ile haue this Secret from thy heart, or rip

       Thy heart to finde it. Is she with Posthumus?

       From whose so many waights of basenesse, cannot

       A dram of worth be drawne

       Pis. Alas, nay Lord,

       How can she be with him? When was she miss’d?

       He is in Rome

       Clot. Where is she Sir? Come neerer:

       No farther halting: satisfie me home,

       What is become of her?

       Pis. Oh, my all-worthy Lord

       Clo. All-worthy Villaine,

       Discouer where thy Mistris is, at once,

       At the next word: no more of worthy Lord:

       Speake, or thy silence on the instant, is

       Thy condemnation, and thy death

       Pis. Then Sir:

       This Paper is the historie of my knowledge

       Touching her flight

       Clo. Let’s see’t: I will pursue her

       Euen to Augustus Throne

       Pis. Or this, or perish.

       She’s farre enough, and what he learnes by this,

       May proue his trauell, not her danger

       Clo. Humh Pis. Ile write to my Lord she’s dead: Oh Imogen,

       Safe mayst thou wander, safe returne agen

       Clot. Sirra, is this Letter true?

       Pis. Sir, as I thinke

       Clot. It is Posthumus hand, I know’t. Sirrah, if thou would’st not be a Villain, but do me true seruice: vndergo those Imployments wherin I should haue cause to vse thee with a serious industry, that is, what villainy soere I bid thee do to performe it, directly and truely, I would thinke thee an honest man: thou should’st neither want my meanes for thy releefe, nor my voyce for thy preferment

       Pis. Well, my good Lord

       Clot. Wilt thou serue mee? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stucke to the bare Fortune of that Begger Posthumus, thou canst not in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serue СКАЧАТЬ