Читать книгу The Tragedy of Coriolanus - Уильям Шекспир, William Szekspir, the Simon Studio - Страница 6

Yonder comes news: – a wager they have met.

My horse to yours, no.

'Tis done.

Agreed.

Say, has our general met the enemy?

They lie in view; but have not spoke as yet.

So, the good horse is mine.

I'll buy him of you.

No, I'll nor sell nor give him: lend you him I will

For half a hundred years. – Summon the town.

How far off lie these armies?

Within this mile and half.

Then shall we hear their 'larum, and they ours. —

Now, Mars, I pr'ythee, make us quick in work,

That we with smoking swords may march from hence

To help our fielded friends! – Come, blow thy blast.

Tullus Aufidius, is he within your walls?

No, nor a man that fears you less than he,

That's lesser than a little.

Hark, our drums

Are bringing forth our youth! we'll break our walls

Rather than they shall pound us up: our gates,

Which yet seem shut, we have but pinn'd with rushes;

They'll open of themselves.

Hark you far off!

There is Aufidius; list what work he makes

Amongst your cloven army.

O, they are at it!

Their noise be our instruction. – Ladders, ho!

They fear us not, but issue forth their city.

Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight

With hearts more proof than shields. – Advance, brave Titus:

They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts,

Which makes me sweat with wrath. – Come on, my fellows:

He that retires, I'll take him for a Volsce,

And he shall feel mine edge.

All the contagion of the south light on you,

You shames of Rome! – you herd of – Boils and plagues

Plaster you o'er, that you may be abhorr'd

Farther than seen, and one infect another

Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese

That bear the shapes of men, how have you run

From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell!

All hurt behind; backs red, and faces pale

With flight and agued fear! Mend, and charge home,

Or, by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe

And make my wars on you: look to't: come on;

If you'll stand fast we'll beat them to their wives,

As they us to our trenches.

So, now the gates are ope: – now prove good seconds:

'Tis for the followers fortune widens them,

Not for the fliers: mark me, and do the like.

Fool-hardiness: not I.

Nor I.

See, they have shut him in.

To th' pot, I warrant him.

What is become of Marcius?

Slain, sir, doubtless.

Following the fliers at the very heels,

With them he enters; who, upon the sudden,

Clapp'd-to their gates: he is himself alone,

To answer all the city.

O noble fellow!

Who sensible, outdares his senseless sword,

And when it bows stands up! Thou art left, Marcius:

A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art,

Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier

Even to Cato's wish, not fierce and terrible

Only in strokes; but with thy grim looks and

The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds

Thou mad'st thine enemies shake, as if the world

Were feverous and did tremble.

Look, sir.

O, 'tis Marcius!

Let's fetch him off, or make remain alike.