CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

Чтение книги онлайн.

       But soft; no Bedfellow? Oh Gods, and Goddesses!

       These Flowres are like the pleasures of the World;

       This bloody man the care on’t. I hope I dreame:

       For so I thought I was a Caue-keeper,

       And Cooke to honest Creatures. But ‘tis not so:

       ‘Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot of nothing,

       Which the Braine makes of Fumes. Our very eyes,

       Are sometimes like our Iudgements, blinde. Good faith

       I tremble still with feare: but if there be

       Yet left in Heauen, as small a drop of pittie

       As a Wrens eye; fear’d Gods, a part of it.

       The Dreame’s heere still: euen when I wake it is

       Without me, as within me: not imagin’d, felt.

       A headlesse man? The Garments of Posthumus?

       I know the shape of’s Legge: this is his Hand:

       His Foote Mercuriall: his martiall Thigh

       The brawnes of Hercules: but his Iouiall face-

       Murther in heauen? How? ‘tis gone. Pisanio,

       All Curses madded Hecuba gaue the Greekes,

       And mine to boot, be darted on thee: thou

       Conspir’d with that Irregulous diuell Cloten,

       Hath heere cut off my Lord. To write, and read,

       Be henceforth treacherous. Damn’d Pisanio,

       Hath with his forged Letters (damn’d Pisanio)

       From this most brauest vessell of the world

       Strooke the maine top! Oh Posthumus, alas,

       Where is thy head? where’s that? Aye me! where’s that?

       Pisanio might haue kill’d thee at the heart,

       And left this head on. How should this be, Pisanio?

       ‘Tis he, and Cloten: Malice, and Lucre in them

       Haue laid this Woe heere. Oh ‘tis pregnant, pregnant!

       The Drugge he gaue me, which hee said was precious

       And Cordiall to me, haue I not found it

       Murd’rous to’th’ Senses? That confirmes it home:

       This is Pisanio’s deede, and Cloten: Oh!

       Giue colour to my pale cheeke with thy blood,

       That we the horrider may seeme to those

       Which chance to finde vs. Oh, my Lord! my Lord!

       Enter Lucius, Captaines, and a Soothsayer.

       Cap. To them, the Legions garrison’d in Gallia

       After your will, haue crost the Sea, attending

       You heere at Milford-Hauen, with your Shippes:

       They are heere in readinesse

       Luc. But what from Rome?

       Cap. The Senate hath stirr’d vp the Confiners,

       And Gentlemen of Italy, most willing Spirits,

       That promise Noble Seruice: and they come

       Vnder the Conduct of bold Iachimo,

       Syenna’s Brother

       Luc. When expect you them?

       Cap. With the next benefit o’th’ winde

       Luc. This forwardnesse

       Makes our hopes faire. Command our present numbers

       Be muster’d: bid the Captaines looke too’t. Now Sir,

       What haue you dream’d of late of this warres purpose

       Sooth. Last night, the very Gods shew’d me a vision

       (I fast, and pray’d for their Intelligence) thus:

       I saw Ioues Bird, the Roman Eagle wing’d

       From the spungy South, to this part of the West,

       There vanish’d in the Sun-beames, which portends

       (Vnlesse my sinnes abuse my Diuination)

       Successe to th’ Roman hoast

       Luc. Dreame often so,

       And neuer false. Soft hoa, what truncke is heere?

       Without his top? The ruine speakes, that sometime

       It was a worthy building. How? a Page?

       Or dead, or sleeping on him? But dead rather:

       For Nature doth abhorre to make his bed

       With the defunct, or sleepe vpon the dead.

       Let’s see the Boyes face

       Cap. Hee’s aliue my Lord Luc. Hee’l then instruct vs of this body: Young one,

       Informe vs of thy Fortunes, for it seemes

       They craue to be demanded: who is this

       Thou mak’st thy bloody Pillow? Or who was he

       That (otherwise then noble Nature did)

       Hath alter’d that good Picture? What’s thy interest

       In this sad wracke? How came’t? Who is’t?

       What art thou?

       Imo. I am nothing; or if not,

       Nothing to be were better: This was my Master,

       A very valiant Britaine, and a good,

       That heere by Mountaineers lyes slaine: Alas,

       There is no more such Masters: I may wander

       From East to Occident, cry out for Seruice,

       Try many, all good: serue truly: neuer

       Finde such another Master

       Luc. ‘Lacke, good youth:

       Thou mou’st no lesse with thy complaining, then

       СКАЧАТЬ