Читать книгу The Tragedy of Coriolanus - Уильям Шекспир, William Szekspir, the Simon Studio - Страница 7

This will I carry to Rome.

And I this.

A murrain on't! I took this for silver.

See here these movers that do prize their hours

At a crack'd drachma! Cushions, leaden spoons,

Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would

Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves,

Ere yet the fight be done, pack up: – down with them! —

And hark, what noise the general makes! – To him! —

There is the man of my soul's hate, Aufidius,

Piercing our Romans; then, valiant Titus, take

Convenient numbers to make good the city;

Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste

To help Cominius.

Worthy sir, thou bleed'st;

Thy exercise hath been too violent

For a second course of fight.

Sir, praise me not;

My work hath yet not warm'd me: fare you well;

The blood I drop is rather physical

Than dangerous to me: to Aufidius thus

I will appear, and fight.

Now the fair goddess, Fortune,

Fall deep in love with thee; and her great charms

Misguide thy opposers' swords! Bold gentleman,

Prosperity be thy page!

Thy friend no less

Than those she placeth highest! – So farewell.

Thou worthiest Marcius! —

Go, sound thy trumpet in the market-place;

Call thither all the officers o' the town,

Where they shall know our mind: away!