CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       I can with ease produce

       Cym. Guiderius had

       Vpon his necke a Mole, a sanguine Starre,

       It was a marke of wonder

       Bel. This is he,

       Who hath vpon him still that naturall stampe:

       It was wise Natures end, in the donation

       To be his euidence now

       Cym. Oh, what am I

       A Mother to the byrth of three? Nere Mother

       Reioyc’d deliuerance more: Blest, pray you be,

       That after this strange starting from your Orbes,

       You may reigne in them now: Oh Imogen,

       Thou hast lost by this a Kingdome

       Imo. No, my Lord:

       I haue got two Worlds by’t. Oh my gentle Brothers,

       Haue we thus met? Oh neuer say heereafter

       But I am truest speaker. You call’d me Brother

       When I was but your Sister: I you Brothers,

       When we were so indeed

       Cym. Did you ere meete?

       Arui. I my good Lord

       Gui. And at first meeting lou’d,

       Continew’d so, vntill we thought he dyed

       Corn. By the Queenes Dramme she swallow’d Cym. O rare instinct!

       When shall I heare all through? This fierce abridgment,

       Hath to it Circumstantiall branches, which

       Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liu’d you?

       And when came you to serue our Romane Captiue?

       How parted with your Brother? How first met them?

       Why fled you from the Court? And whether these?

       And your three motiues to the Battaile? with

       I know not how much more should be demanded,

       And all the other by-dependances

       From chance to chance? But nor the Time, nor Place

       Will serue our long Interrogatories. See,

       Posthumus Anchors vpon Imogen;

       And she (like harmlesse Lightning) throwes her eye

       On him: her Brothers, Me: her Master hitting

       Each obiect with a Ioy: the Counterchange

       Is seuerally in all. Let’s quit this ground,

       And smoake the Temple with our Sacrifices.

       Thou art my Brother, so wee’l hold thee euer

       Imo. You are my Father too, and did releeue me:

       To see this gracious season

       Cym. All ore-ioy’d

       Saue these in bonds, let them be ioyfull too,

       For they shall taste our Comfort

       Imo. My good Master, I will yet do you seruice Luc. Happy be you

       Cym. The forlorne Souldier, that so Nobly fought

       He would haue well becom’d this place, and grac’d

       The thankings of a King

       Post. I am Sir

       The Souldier that did company these three

       In poore beseeming: ‘twas a fitment for

       The purpose I then follow’d. That I was he,

       Speake Iachimo, I had you downe, and might

       Haue made you finish

       Iach. I am downe againe:

       But now my heauie Conscience sinkes my knee,

       As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you

       Which I so often owe: but your Ring first,

       And heere the Bracelet of the truest Princesse

       That euer swore the Faith

       Post. Kneele not to me:

       The powre that I haue on you, is to spare you:

       The malice towards you, to forgiue you. Liue

       And deale with others better

       Cym. Nobly doom’d:

       Wee’l learne our Freenesse of a Sonne-in-Law:

       Pardon’s the word to all

       Arui. You holpe vs Sir,

       As you did meane indeed to be our Brother,

       Ioy’d are we, that you are

       Post. Your Seruant Princes. Good my Lord of Rome

       Call forth your Soothsayer: As I slept, me thought

       Great Iupiter vpon his Eagle back’d

       Appear’d to me, with other sprightly shewes

       Of mine owne Kindred. When I wak’d, I found

       This Labell on my bosome; whose containing

       Is so from sense in hardnesse, that I can

       Make no Collection of it. Let him shew

       His skill in the construction

       Luc. Philarmonus Sooth. Heere, my good Lord

       Luc. Read, and declare the meaning.

       Reades.

       When as a Lyons whelpe, shall to himselfe vnknown, without

       seeking finde, and bee embrac’d by a peece of tender

       Ayre: And when from a stately Cedar shall be lopt branches,

       which being dead many yeares, shall after reuiue, bee ioynted to

       the old Stocke, and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end his

       miseries, Britaine be fortunate, and flourish in Peace and Plentie.

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