CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

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       Corn. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to loue

       With such integrity, she did confesse

       Was as a Scorpion to her sight, whose life

       (But that her flight preuented it) she had

       Tane off by poyson

       Cym. O most delicate Fiend!

       Who is’t can reade a Woman? Is there more?

       Corn. More Sir, and worse. She did confesse she had

       For you a mortall Minerall, which being tooke,

       Should by the minute feede on life, and ling’ring,

       By inches waste you. In which time, she purpos’d

       By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to

       Orecome you with her shew; and in time

       (When she had fitted you with her craft, to worke

       Her Sonne into th’ adoption of the Crowne:

       But fayling of her end by his strange absence,

       Grew shamelesse desperate, open’d (in despight

       Of Heauen, and Men) her purposes: repented

       The euils she hatch’d, were not effected: so

       Dispayring, dyed

       Cym. Heard you all this, her Women?

       La. We did, so please your Highnesse

       Cym. Mine eyes

       Were not in fault, for she was beautifull:

       Mine eares that heare her flattery, nor my heart,

       That thought her like her seeming. It had beene vicious

       To haue mistrusted her: yet (Oh my Daughter)

       That it was folly in me, thou mayst say,

       And proue it in thy feeling. Heauen mend all.

       Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prisoners, Leonatus

       behind, and

       Imogen.

       Thou comm’st not Caius now for Tribute, that

       The Britaines haue rac’d out, though with the losse

       Of many a bold one: whose Kinsmen haue made suite

       That their good soules may be appeas’d, with slaughter

       Of you their Captiues, which our selfe haue granted,

       So thinke of your estate

       Luc. Consider Sir, the chance of Warre, the day

       Was yours by accident: had it gone with vs,

       We should not when the blood was cool, haue threatend

       Our Prisoners with the Sword. But since the Gods

       Will haue it thus, that nothing but our liues

       May be call’d ransome, let it come: Sufficeth,

       A Roman, with a Romans heart can suffer:

       Augustus liues to thinke on’t: and so much

       For my peculiar care. This one thing onely

       I will entreate, my Boy (a Britaine borne)

       Let him be ransom’d: Neuer Master had

       A Page so kinde, so duteous, diligent,

       So tender ouer his occasions, true,

       So feate, so Nurse-like: let his vertue ioyne

       With my request, which Ile make bold your Highnesse

       Cannot deny: he hath done no Britaine harme,

       Though he haue seru’d a Roman. Saue him (Sir)

       And spare no blood beside

       Cym. I haue surely seene him:

       His fauour is familiar to me: Boy,

       Thou hast look’d thy selfe into my grace,

       And art mine owne. I know not why, wherefore,

       To say, liue boy: ne’re thanke thy Master, liue;

       And aske of Cymbeline what Boone thou wilt,

       Fitting my bounty, and thy state, Ile giue it:

       Yea, though thou do demand a Prisoner

       The Noblest tane

       Imo. I humbly thanke your Highnesse Luc. I do not bid thee begge my life, good Lad,

       And yet I know thou wilt

       Imo. No, no, alacke,

       There’s other worke in hand: I see a thing

       Bitter to me, as death: your life, good Master,

       Must shuffle for it selfe

       Luc. The Boy disdaines me,

       He leaues me, scornes me: briefely dye their ioyes,

       That place them on the truth of Gyrles, and Boyes.

       Why stands he so perplext?

       Cym. What would’st thou Boy?

       I loue thee more, and more: thinke more and more

       What’s best to aske. Know’st him thou look’st on? speak

       Wilt haue him liue? Is he thy Kin? thy Friend?

       Imo. He is a Romane, no more kin to me,

       Then I to your Highnesse, who being born your vassaile

       Am something neerer

       Cym. Wherefore ey’st him so?

       Imo. Ile tell you (Sir) in priuate, if you please

       To giue me hearing

       Cym. I, with all my heart,

       And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?

       Imo. Fidele Sir

       Cym. Thou’rt my good youth: my Page

       Ile be thy Master: walke with me: speake freely

       Bel. Is not this Boy reuiu’d from death?

       Arui. One Sand another

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