CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

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СКАЧАТЬ and braine not: either both, or nothing Or senselesse speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot vntye. Be what it is, The Action of my life is like it, which Ile keepe If but for simpathy. Enter Gaoler.

       Gao. Come Sir, are you ready for death?

       Post. Ouer-roasted rather: ready long ago

       Gao. Hanging is the word, Sir, if you bee readie for

       that, you are well Cook’d

       Post. So if I proue a good repast to the Spectators, the

       dish payes the shot

       Gao. A heauy reckoning for you Sir: But the comfort is you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more Tauerne Bils, which are often the sadnesse of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in faint for want of meate, depart reeling with too much drinke: sorrie that you haue payed too much, and sorry that you are payed too much: Purse and Braine, both empty: the Brain the heauier, for being too light; the Purse too light, being drawne of heauinesse. Oh, of this contradiction you shall now be quit: Oh the charity of a penny Cord, it summes vp thousands in a trice: you haue no true Debitor, and Creditor but it: of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge: your necke (Sir) is Pen, Booke, and Counters; so the Acquittance followes Post. I am merrier to dye, then thou art to liue

       Gao. Indeed Sir, he that sleepes, feeles not the ToothAche: but a man that were to sleepe your sleepe, and a Hangman to helpe him to bed, I think he would change places with his Officer: for, look you Sir, you know not which way you shall go

       Post. Yes indeed do I, fellow

       Gao. Your death has eyes in’s head then: I haue not seene him so pictur’d: you must either bee directed by some that take vpon them to know, or to take vpon your selfe that which I am sure you do not know: or iump the after-enquiry on your owne perill: and how you shall speed in your iournies end, I thinke you’l neuer returne to tell one

       Post. I tell thee, Fellow, there are none want eyes, to direct them the way I am going, but such as winke, and will not vse them

       Gao. What an infinite mocke is this, that a man shold haue the best vse of eyes, to see the way of blindnesse: I am sure hanging’s the way of winking. Enter a Messenger.

       Mes. Knocke off his Manacles, bring your Prisoner to

       the King

       Post. Thou bring’st good newes, I am call’d to bee

       made free

       Gao. Ile be hang’d then

       Post. Thou shalt be then freer then a Gaoler; no bolts for the dead

       Gao. Vnlesse a man would marry a Gallowes, & beget yong Gibbets, I neuer saw one so prone: yet on my Conscience, there are verier Knaues desire to liue, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that dye against their willes; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one minde, and one minde good: O there were desolation of Gaolers and Galowses: I speake against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in’t.

       Exeunt.

      SCENE V.

       Enter Cymbeline, Bellarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, Pisanio, and

       Lords.

       Cym. Stand by my side you, whom the Gods haue made

       Preseruers of my Throne: woe is my heart,

       That the poore Souldier that so richly fought,

       Whose ragges, sham’d gilded Armes, whose naked brest

       Stept before Targes of proofe, cannot be found:

       He shall be happy that can finde him, if

       Our Grace can make him so

       Bel. I neuer saw

       Such Noble fury in so poore a Thing;

       Such precious deeds, in one that promist nought

       But beggery, and poore lookes

       Cym. No tydings of him?

       Pisa. He hath bin search’d among the dead, & liuing;

       But no trace of him

       Cym. To my greefe, I am

       The heyre of his Reward, which I will adde

       To you (the Liuer, Heart, and Braine of Britaine)

       By whom (I grant) she liues. ‘Tis now the time

       To aske of whence you are. Report it

       Bel. Sir,

       In Cambria are we borne, and Gentlemen:

       Further to boast, were neyther true, nor modest,

       Vnlesse I adde, we are honest

       Cym. Bow your knees:

       Arise my Knights o’th’ Battell, I create you

       Companions to our person, and will fit you

       With Dignities becomming your estates.

       Enter Cornelius and Ladies.

       There’s businesse in these faces: why so sadly

       Greet you our Victory? you looke like Romaines,

       And not o’th’ Court of Britaine

       Corn. Hayle great King,

       To sowre your happinesse, I must report

       The Queene is dead

       Cym. Who worse then a Physitian

       Would this report become? But I consider,

       By Med’cine life may be prolong’d, yet death

       Will seize the Doctor too. How ended she?

       Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life,

       Which (being cruell to the world) concluded

       Most cruell to her selfe. What she confest,

       I will report, so please you. These her Women

       Can trip me, if I erre, who with wet cheekes

       Were present when she finish’d

       Cym. Prythee say Cor. First, she confest she neuer lou’d you: onely

       Affected Greatnesse got by you: not you:

       Married your Royalty, was wife to your place:

       Abhorr’d your person

       Cym. She alone knew this:

       And but she spoke it dying, I would not

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