CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

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       Who dyed, and was Fidele: what thinke you?

       Gui. The same dead thing aliue

       Bel. Peace, peace, see further: he eyes vs not, forbeare

       Creatures may be alike: were’t he, I am sure

       He would haue spoke to vs

       Gui. But we see him dead Bel. Be silent: let’s see further

       Pisa. It is my Mistris:

       Since she is liuing, let the time run on,

       To good, or bad

       Cym. Come, stand thou by our side,

       Make thy demand alowd. Sir, step you forth,

       Giue answer to this Boy, and do it freely,

       Or by our Greatnesse, and the grace of it

       (Which is our Honor) bitter torture shall

       Winnow the truth from falshood. One speake to him

       Imo. My boone is, that this Gentleman may render

       Of whom he had this Ring

       Post. What’s that to him?

       Cym. That Diamond vpon your Finger, say

       How came it yours?

       Iach. Thou’lt torture me to leaue vnspoken, that

       Which to be spoke, wou’d torture thee

       Cym. How? me?

       Iach. I am glad to be constrain’d to vtter that

       Which torments me to conceale. By Villany

       I got this Ring: ‘twas Leonatus Iewell,

       Whom thou did’st banish: and which more may greeue thee,

       As it doth me: a Nobler Sir, ne’re liu’d

       ‘Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou heare more my Lord?

       Cym. All that belongs to this

       Iach. That Paragon, thy daughter,

       For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits

       Quaile to remember. Giue me leaue, I faint

       Cym. My Daughter? what of hir? Renew thy strength

       I had rather thou should’st liue, while Nature will,

       Then dye ere I heare more: striue man, and speake

       Iach. Vpon a time, vnhappy was the clocke

       That strooke the houre: it was in Rome, accurst

       The Mansion where: ‘twas at a Feast, oh would

       Our Viands had bin poyson’d (or at least

       Those which I heau’d to head:) the good Posthumus,

       (What should I say? he was too good to be

       Where ill men were, and was the best of all

       Among’st the rar’st of good ones) sitting sadly,

       Hearing vs praise our Loues of Italy

       For Beauty, that made barren the swell’d boast

       Of him that best could speake: for Feature, laming

       The Shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerua,

       Postures, beyond breefe Nature. For Condition,

       A shop of all the qualities, that man

       Loues woman for, besides that hooke of Wiuing,

       Fairenesse, which strikes the eye

       Cym. I stand on fire. Come to the matter Iach. All too soone I shall,

       Vnlesse thou would’st greeue quickly. This Posthumus,

       Most like a Noble Lord, in loue, and one

       That had a Royall Louer, tooke his hint,

       And (not dispraising whom we prais’d, therein

       He was as calme as vertue) he began

       His Mistris picture, which, by his tongue, being made,

       And then a minde put in’t, either our bragges

       Were crak’d of Kitchin-Trulles, or his description

       Prou’d vs vnspeaking sottes

       Cym. Nay, nay, to’th’ purpose

       Iach. Your daughters Chastity, (there it beginnes)

       He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreames,

       And she alone, were cold: Whereat, I wretch

       Made scruple of his praise, and wager’d with him

       Peeces of Gold, ‘gainst this, which then he wore

       Vpon his honour’d finger) to attaine

       In suite the place of’s bed, and winne this Ring

       By hers, and mine Adultery: he (true Knight)

       No lesser of her Honour confident

       Then I did truly finde her, stakes this Ring,

       And would so, had it beene a Carbuncle

       Of Phoebus Wheele; and might so safely, had it

       Bin all the worth of’s Carre. Away to Britaine

       Poste I in this designe: Well may you (Sir)

       Remember me at Court, where I was taught

       Of your chaste Daughter, the wide difference

       ‘Twixt Amorous, and Villanous. Being thus quench’d

       Of hope, not longing; mine Italian braine,

       Gan in your duller Britaine operate

       Most vildely: for my vantage excellent.

       And to be breefe, my practise so preuayl’d

       That I return’d with simular proofe enough,

       To make the Noble Leonatus mad,

       By wounding his beleefe in her Renowne,

       With Tokens thus, and thus: auerring notes

       Of Chamber-hanging, Pictures, this her Bracelet

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