CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

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СКАЧАТЬ Brogues from off my feete, whose rudenesse

       Answer’d my steps too lowd

       Gui. Why, he but sleepes:

       If he be gone, hee’l make his Graue, a Bed:

       With female Fayries will his Tombe be haunted,

       And Wormes will not come to thee

       Arui. With fayrest Flowers

       Whil’st Sommer lasts, and I liue heere, Fidele,

       Ile sweeten thy sad graue: thou shalt not lacke

       The Flower that’s like thy face. Pale-Primrose, nor

       The azur’d Hare-Bell, like thy Veines: no, nor

       The leafe of Eglantine, whom not to slander,

       Out-sweetned not thy breath: the Raddocke would

       With Charitable bill (Oh bill sore shaming

       Those rich-left-heyres, that let their Fathers lye

       Without a Monument) bring thee all this,

       Yea, and furr’d Mosse besides. When Flowres are none

       To winter-ground thy Coarse-

       Gui. Prythee haue done,

       And do not play in Wench-like words with that

       Which is so serious. Let vs bury him,

       And not protract with admiration, what

       Is now due debt. To’th’ graue

       Arui. Say, where shall’s lay him?

       Gui. By good Euriphile, our Mother

       Arui. Bee’t so:

       And let vs (Polidore) though now our voyces

       Haue got the mannish cracke, sing him to’th’ ground

       As once to our Mother: vse like note, and words,

       Saue that Euriphile, must be Fidele

       Gui. Cadwall,

       I cannot sing: Ile weepe, and word it with thee;

       For Notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse

       Then Priests, and Phanes that lye

       Arui. Wee’l speake it then Bel. Great greefes I see med’cine the lesse: For Cloten

       Is quite forgot. He was a Queenes Sonne, Boyes,

       And though he came our Enemy, remember

       He was paid for that: though meane, and mighty rotting

       Together haue one dust, yet Reuerence

       (That Angell of the world) doth make distinction

       Of place ‘tweene high, and low. Our Foe was Princely,

       And though you tooke his life, as being our Foe,

       Yet bury him, as a Prince

       Gui. Pray you fetch him hither,

       Thersites body is as good as Aiax,

       When neyther are aliue

       Arui. If you’l go fetch him,

       Wee’l say our Song the whil’st: Brother begin

       Gui. Nay Cadwall, we must lay his head to th’ East,

       My Father hath a reason for’t

       Arui. ‘Tis true

       Gui. Come on then, and remoue him

       Arui. So, begin.

       SONG.

       Guid. Feare no more the heate o’th’ Sun,

       Nor the furious Winters rages,

       Thou thy worldly task hast don,

       Home art gon, and tane thy wages.

       Golden Lads, and Girles all must,

       As Chimney-Sweepers come to dust

       Arui. Feare no more the frowne o’th’ Great,

       Thou art past the Tirants stroake,

       Care no more to cloath and eate,

       To thee the Reede is as the Oake:

       The Scepter, Learning, Physicke must,

       All follow this and come to dust

       Guid. Feare no more the Lightning flash

       Arui. Nor th’ all-dreaded Thunderstone

       Gui. Feare not Slander, Censure rash

       Arui. Thou hast finish’d Ioy and mone

       Both. All Louers young, all Louers must,

       Consigne to thee and come to dust

       Guid. No Exorcisor harme thee,

       Arui. Nor no witchcraft charme thee

       Guid. Ghost vnlaid forbeare thee

       Arui. Nothing ill come neere thee

       Both. Quiet consumation haue,

       And renowned be thy graue.

       Enter Belarius with the body of Cloten.

       Gui. We haue done our obsequies:

       Come lay him downe

       Bel. Heere’s a few Flowres, but ‘bout midnight more:

       The hearbes that haue on them cold dew o’th’ night

       Are strewings fit’st for Graues: vpon their Faces.

       You were as Flowres, now wither’d: euen so

       These Herbelets shall, which we vpon you strew.

       Come on, away, apart vpon our knees:

       The ground that gaue them first, ha’s them againe:

       Their pleasures here are past, so are their paine.

       Exeunt.

       Imogen awakes.

       Yes Sir, to Milford-Hauen, which is the way?

       I thanke you: by yond bush? pray how farre thether?

       ‘Ods СКАЧАТЬ