Читать книгу Twelfth Night; or, What You Will - Уильям Шекспир, William Szekspir, the Simon Studio - Страница 3

Duke. [Music.] If music be the food of love, play on,

Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die. —

[Music.] That strain again; – it had a dying fall:

O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,

That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing, and giving odours. —

[Music.] Enough; no more; [He rises.

'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before.

Cur. Will you go hunt, my lord?

Duke. What, Curio?

Cur. The hart.

Duke. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:

O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,

Methought, she purged the air of pestilence;

That instant was I turn'd into a hart;

And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,

E'er since pursue me.

How now? what news from my Olivia? – speak.

Val. So please my lord, I might not be admitted;

But from her handmaid do return this answer;

The element itself, till seven years heat,

Shall not behold her face at ample view;

But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk,

And water once a day her chamber round

With eye-offending brine: all this, to season

A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh,

And lasting, in her sad remembrance.

Duke. O, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame,

To pay this debt of love but to a brother,

How will she love, when the rich golden shaft

Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else

That live in her! —

Away before me to sweet beds of flowers;

Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers.