CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

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       Chickens, the way which they stopt Eagles: Slaues

       The strides the Victors made: and now our Cowards

       Like Fragments in hard Voyages became

       The life o’th’ need: hauing found the backe doore open

       Of the vnguarded hearts: heauens, how they wound,

       Some slaine before some dying; some their Friends

       Ore-borne i’th’ former waue, ten chac’d by one,

       Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty:

       Those that would dye, or ere resist, are growne

       The mortall bugs o’th’ Field

       Lord. This was strange chance:

       A narrow Lane, an old man, and two Boyes

       Post. Nay, do not wonder at it: you are made

       Rather to wonder at the things you heare,

       Then to worke any. Will you Rime vpon’t,

       And vent it for a Mock’rie? Heere is one:

       “Two Boyes, an Oldman (twice a Boy) a Lane,

       “Preseru’d the Britaines, was the Romanes bane

       Lord. Nay, be not angry Sir Post. Lacke, to what end?

       Who dares not stand his Foe, Ile be his Friend:

       For if hee’l do, as he is made to doo,

       I know hee’l quickly flye my friendship too.

       You haue put me into Rime

       Lord. Farewell, you’re angry.

       Enter.

       Post. Still going? This is a Lord: Oh Noble misery

       To be i’th’ Field, and aske what newes of me:

       To day, how many would haue giuen their Honours

       To haue sau’d their Carkasses? Tooke heele to doo’t,

       And yet dyed too. I, in mine owne woe charm’d

       Could not finde death, where I did heare him groane,

       Nor feele him where he strooke. Being an vgly Monster,

       ‘Tis strange he hides him in fresh Cups, soft Beds,

       Sweet words; or hath moe ministers then we

       That draw his kniues i’th’ War. Well I will finde him:

       For being now a Fauourer to the Britaine,

       No more a Britaine, I haue resum’d againe

       The part I came in. Fight I will no more,

       But yeeld me to the veriest Hinde, that shall

       Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is

       Heere made by’th’ Romane; great the Answer be

       Britaines must take. For me, my Ransome’s death,

       On eyther side I come to spend my breath;

       Which neyther heere Ile keepe, nor beare agen,

       But end it by some meanes for Imogen.

       Enter two Captaines, and Soldiers.

       1 Great Iupiter be prais’d, Lucius is taken,

       ‘Tis thought the old man, and his sonnes, were Angels

       2 There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,

       That gaue th’ Affront with them

       1 So ‘tis reported:

       But none of ‘em can be found. Stand, who’s there?

       Post. A Roman,

       Who had not now beene drooping heere, if Seconds

       Had answer’d him

       2 Lay hands on him: a Dogge,

       A legge of Rome shall not returne to tell

       What Crows haue peckt them here: he brags his seruice

       As if he were of note: bring him to’th’ King.

       Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, Pisanio, and

       Romane

       Captiues. The Captaines present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who

       deliuers him

       ouer to a Gaoler.

      SCENE IV.

       Enter Posthumus, and Gaoler.

       Gao. You shall not now be stolne,

       You haue lockes vpon you:

       So graze, as you finde Pasture

       2.Gao. I, or a stomacke

       Post. Most welcome bondage; for thou art a way

       (I thinke) to liberty: yet am I better

       Then one that’s sicke o’th’ Gowt, since he had rather

       Groane so in perpetuity, then be cur’d

       By’th’ sure Physitian, Death; who is the key

       T’ vnbarre these Lockes. My Conscience, thou art fetter’d

       More then my shanks, & wrists: you good Gods giue me

       The penitent Instrument to picke that Bolt,

       Then free for euer. Is’t enough I am sorry?

       So Children temporall Fathers do appease;

       Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent,

       I cannot do it better then in Gyues,

       Desir’d, more then constrain’d, to satisfie

       If of my Freedome ‘tis the maine part, take

       No stricter render of me, then my All.

       I know you are more clement then vilde men,

       Who of their broken Debtors take a third,

       A sixt, a tenth, letting them thriue againe

       On their abatement; that’s not СКАЧАТЬ