CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

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       I will from hence to day

       Qu. You know the perill:

       Ile fetch a turne about the Garden, pittying

       The pangs of barr’d Affections, though the King

       Hath charg’d you should not speake together.

       Exit

       Imo. O dissembling Curtesie! How fine this Tyrant

       Can tickle where she wounds? My deerest Husband,

       I something feare my Fathers wrath, but nothing

       (Alwayes reseru’d my holy duty) what

       His rage can do on me. You must be gone,

       And I shall heere abide the hourely shot

       Of angry eyes: not comforted to liue,

       But that there is this Iewell in the world,

       That I may see againe

       Post. My Queene, my Mistris:

       O Lady, weepe no more, least I giue cause

       To be suspected of more tendernesse

       Then doth become a man. I will remaine

       The loyall’st husband, that did ere plight troth.

       My residence in Rome, at one Filorio’s,

       Who, to my Father was a Friend, to me

       Knowne but by Letter; thither write (my Queene)

       And with mine eyes, Ile drinke the words you send,

       Though Inke be made of Gall.

       Enter Queene.

       Qu. Be briefe, I pray you:

       If the King come, I shall incurre, I know not

       How much of his displeasure: yet Ile moue him

       To walke this way: I neuer do him wrong,

       But he do’s buy my Iniuries, to be Friends:

       Payes deere for my offences

       Post. Should we be taking leaue

       As long a terme as yet we haue to liue,

       The loathnesse to depart, would grow: Adieu

       Imo. Nay, stay a little:

       Were you but riding forth to ayre your selfe,

       Such parting were too petty. Looke heere (Loue)

       This Diamond was my Mothers; take it (Heart)

       But keepe it till you woo another Wife,

       When Imogen is dead

       Post. How, how? Another?

       You gentle Gods, giue me but this I haue,

       And seare vp my embracements from a next,

       With bonds of death. Remaine, remaine thou heere,

       While sense can keepe it on: And sweetest, fairest,

       As I (my poore selfe) did exchange for you

       To your so infinite losse; so in our trifles

       I still winne of you. For my sake weare this,

       It is a Manacle of Loue, Ile place it

       Vpon this fayrest Prisoner

       Imo. O the Gods!

       When shall we see againe?

       Enter Cymbeline, and Lords.

       Post. Alacke, the King Cym. Thou basest thing, auoyd hence, from my sight:

       If after this command thou fraught the Court

       With thy vnworthinesse, thou dyest. Away,

       Thou’rt poyson to my blood

       Post. The Gods protect you,

       And blesse the good Remainders of the Court:

       I am gone

       Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death

       More sharpe then this is

       Cym. O disloyall thing,

       That should’st repayre my youth, thou heap’st

       A yeares age on mee

       Imo. I beseech you Sir,

       Harme not your selfe with your vexation,

       I am senselesse of your Wrath; a Touch more rare

       Subdues all pangs, all feares

       Cym. Past Grace? Obedience?

       Imo. Past hope, and in dispaire, that way past Grace

       Cym. That might’st haue had

       The sole Sonne of my Queene

       Imo. O blessed, that I might not: I chose an Eagle,

       And did auoyd a Puttocke

       Cym. Thou took’st a Begger, would’st haue made my

       Throne, a Seate for basenesse

       Imo. No, I rather added a lustre to it Cym. O thou vilde one!

       Imo. Sir,

       It is your fault that I haue lou’d Posthumus:

       You bred him as my Playfellow, and he is

       A man, worth any woman: Ouer-buyes mee

       Almost the summe he payes

       Cym. What? art thou mad?

       Imo. Almost Sir: Heauen restore me: would I were

       A Neat-heards Daughter, and my Leonatus

       Our Neighbour-Shepheards Sonne.

       Enter Queene.

       Cym. Thou foolish thing;

       They were againe together: you haue done

       Not after our command. Away with her,

       And pen her vp

       Qu. Beseech your patience: Peace

       Deere Lady daughter, peace. Sweet Soueraigne,

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