Читать книгу Coriolanus - Уильям Шекспир, William Szekspir, the Simon Studio - Страница 10

  COMINIUS. If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work,

    Thou't not believe thy deeds; but I'll report it

    Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles;

    Where great patricians shall attend, and shrug,

    I' th' end admire; where ladies shall be frighted

    And, gladly quak'd, hear more; where the dull tribunes,

    That with the fusty plebeians hate thine honours,

    Shall say against their hearts 'We thank the gods

    Our Rome hath such a soldier.'

    Yet cam'st thou to a morsel of this feast,

    Having fully din'd before.

  LARTIUS. O General,

    Here is the steed, we the caparison.

    Hadst thou beheld-

  MARCIUS. Pray now, no more; my mother,

    Who has a charter to extol her blood,

    When she does praise me grieves me. I have done

    As you have done- that's what I can; induc'd

    As you have been- that's for my country.

    He that has but effected his good will

    Hath overta'en mine act.

  COMINIUS. You shall not be

    The grave of your deserving; Rome must know

    The value of her own. 'Twere a concealment

    Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement,

    To hide your doings and to silence that

    Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch'd,

    Would seem but modest. Therefore, I beseech you,

    In sign of what you are, not to reward

    What you have done, before our army hear me.

  MARCIUS. I have some wounds upon me, and they smart

    To hear themselves rememb'red.

  COMINIUS. Should they not,

    Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude

    And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses-

    Whereof we have ta'en good, and good store- of all

    The treasure in this field achiev'd and city,

    We render you the tenth; to be ta'en forth

    Before the common distribution at

    Your only choice.

  MARCIUS. I thank you, General,

    But cannot make my heart consent to take

    A bribe to pay my sword. I do refuse it,

    And stand upon my common part with those

    That have beheld the doing.

    May these same instruments which you profane

    Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall

    I' th' field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be

    Made all of false-fac'd soothing. When steel grows

    Soft as the parasite's silk, let him be made

    An overture for th' wars. No more, I say.

    For that I have not wash'd my nose that bled,

    Or foil'd some debile wretch, which without note

    Here's many else have done, you shout me forth

    In acclamations hyperbolical,

    As if I lov'd my little should be dieted

    In praises sauc'd with lies.

  COMINIUS. Too modest are you;

    More cruel to your good report than grateful

    To us that give you truly. By your patience,

    If 'gainst yourself you be incens'd, we'll put you-

    Like one that means his proper harm- in manacles,

    Then reason safely with you. Therefore be it known,

    As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius

    Wears this war's garland; in token of the which,

    My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him,

    With all his trim belonging; and from this time,

    For what he did before Corioli, call him

    With all th' applause-and clamour of the host,

    Caius Marcius Coriolanus.

    Bear th' addition nobly ever!

                           [Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums]

  ALL. Caius Marcius Coriolanus!

  CORIOLANUS. I will go wash;

    And when my face is fair you shall perceive

    Whether I blush or no. Howbeit, I thank you;

    I mean to stride your steed, and at all times

    To undercrest your good addition

    To th' fairness of my power.

  COMINIUS. So, to our tent;

    Where, ere we do repose us, we will write

    To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius,

    Must to Corioli back. Send us to Rome

    The best, with whom we may articulate

    For their own good and ours.

  LARTIUS. I shall, my lord.

  CORIOLANUS. The gods begin to mock me. I, that now

    Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg

    Of my Lord General.

  COMINIUS. Take't- 'tis yours; what is't?

  CORIOLANUS. I sometime lay here in Corioli

    At a poor man's house; he us'd me kindly.

    He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;

    But then Aufidius was within my view,

    And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity. I request you

    To give my poor host freedom.

  COMINIUS. O, well begg'd!

    Were he the butcher of my son, he should

    Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.

  LARTIUS. Marcius, his name?

  CORIOLANUS. By Jupiter, forgot!

    I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd.

    Have we no wine here?

  COMINIUS. Go we to our tent.

    The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time

    It should be look'd to. Come. Exeunt