Читать книгу Cymbeline (The Unabridged Play) + The Classic Biography: The Life of William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare - Страница 14

Enter Imogen, in her Bed, and a Lady.

Imo. Who’s there? My woman: Helene?

La. Please you Madam

Imo. What houre is it?

Lady. Almost midnight, Madam

Imo. I haue read three houres then:

Mine eyes are weake,

Fold downe the leafe where I haue left: to bed.

Take not away the Taper, leaue it burning:

And if thou canst awake by foure o’th’ clock,

I prythee call me: Sleepe hath ceiz’d me wholly.

To your protection I commend me, Gods,

From Fayries, and the Tempters of the night,

Guard me beseech yee.

Sleepes.

Iachimo from the Trunke.

Iach. The Crickets sing, and mans ore-labor’d sense

Repaires it selfe by rest: Our Tarquine thus

Did softly presse the Rushes, ere he waken’d

The Chastitie he wounded. Cytherea,

How brauely thou becom’st thy Bed; fresh Lilly,

And whiter then the Sheetes: that I might touch,

But kisse, one kisse. Rubies vnparagon’d,

How deerely they doo’t: ‘Tis her breathing that

Perfumes the Chamber thus: the Flame o’th’ Taper

Bowes toward her, and would vnder-peepe her lids.

To see th’ inclosed Lights, now Canopied

Vnder these windowes, White and Azure lac’d

With Blew of Heauens owne tinct. But my designe.

To note the Chamber, I will write all downe,

Such, and such pictures: There the window, such

Th’ adornement of her Bed; the Arras, Figures,

Why such, and such: and the Contents o’th’ Story.

Ah, but some naturall notes about her Body,

Aboue ten thousand meaner Moueables

Would testifie, t’ enrich mine Inuentorie.

O sleepe, thou Ape of death, lye dull vpon her,

And be her Sense but as a Monument,

Thus in a Chappell lying. Come off, come off;

As slippery as the Gordian-knot was hard.

‘Tis mine, and this will witnesse outwardly,

As strongly as the Conscience do’s within:

To’th’ madding of her Lord. On her left brest

A mole Cinque-spotted: Like the Crimson drops

I’th’ bottome of a Cowslippe. Heere’s a Voucher,

Stronger then euer Law could make; this Secret

Will force him thinke I haue pick’d the lock, and t’ane

The treasure of her Honour. No more: to what end?

Why should I write this downe, that’s riueted,

Screw’d to my memorie. She hath bin reading late,

The Tale of Tereus, heere the leaffe’s turn’d downe

Where Philomele gaue vp. I haue enough,

To’th’ Truncke againe, and shut the spring of it.

Swift, swift, you Dragons of the night, that dawning

May beare the Rauens eye: I lodge in feare,

Though this a heauenly Angell: hell is heere.

Clocke strikes One, two, three: time, time.

Enter.