Читать книгу Cymbeline (The Unabridged Play) + The Classic Biography: The Life of William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare - Страница 15

Enter Clotten, and Lords.

1. Your Lordship is the most patient man in losse, the most coldest that euer turn’d vp Ace

Clot. It would make any man cold to loose

1. But not euery man patient after the noble temper of your Lordship; You are most hot, and furious when you winne. Winning will put any man into courage: if I could get this foolish Imogen, I should haue Gold enough: it’s almost morning, is’t not? 1 Day, my Lord

Clot. I would this Musicke would come: I am aduised to giue her Musicke a mornings, they say it will penetrate. Enter Musitians.

Come on, tune: If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so: wee’l try with tongue too: if none will do, let her remaine: but Ile neuer giue o’re. First, a very excellent good conceyted thing; after a wonderful sweet aire, with admirable rich words to it, and then let her consider.

SONG.

Hearke, hearke, the Larke at Heauens gate sings, and Phoebus gins arise, His Steeds to water at those Springs on chalic’d Flowres that lyes: And winking Mary-buds begin to ope their Golden eyes With euery thing that pretty is, my Lady sweet arise: Arise, arise. So, get you gone: if this penetrate, I will consider your Musicke the better: if it do not, it is a voyce in her eares which Horse-haires, and Calues-guts, nor the voyce of vnpaued Eunuch to boot, can neuer amend. Enter Cymbaline, and Queene.

2 Heere comes the King

Clot. I am glad I was vp so late, for that’s the reason

I was vp so earely: he cannot choose but take this Seruice

I haue done, fatherly. Good morrow to your Maiesty,

and to my gracious Mother

Cym. Attend you here the doore of our stern daughter

Will she not forth?

Clot. I haue assayl’d her with Musickes, but she vouchsafes

no notice

Cym. The Exile of her Minion is too new,

She hath not yet forgot him, some more time

Must weare the print of his remembrance on’t,

And then she’s yours

Qu. You are most bound to’th’ King,

Who let’s go by no vantages, that may

Preferre you to his daughter: Frame your selfe

To orderly solicity, and be friended

With aptnesse of the season: make denials

Encrease your Seruices: so seeme, as if

You were inspir’d to do those duties which

You tender to her: that you in all obey her,

Saue when command to your dismission tends,

And therein you are senselesse

Clot. Senselesse? Not so Mes. So like you (Sir) Ambassadors from Rome;

The one is Caius Lucius

Cym. A worthy Fellow,

Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;

But that’s no fault of his: we must receyue him

According to the Honor of his Sender,

And towards himselfe, his goodnesse forespent on vs

We must extend our notice: Our deere Sonne,

When you haue giuen good morning to your Mistris,

Attend the Queene, and vs, we shall haue neede

T’ employ you towards this Romane.

Come our Queene.

Exeunt.

Clot. If she be vp, Ile speake with her: if not

Let her lye still, and dreame: by your leaue hoa,

I know her women are about her: what

If I do line one of their hands, ‘tis Gold

Which buyes admittance (oft it doth) yea, and makes

Diana’s Rangers false themselues, yeeld vp

Their Deere to’th’ stand o’th’ Stealer: and ‘tis Gold

Which makes the True-man kill’d, and saues the Theefe:

Nay, sometime hangs both Theefe, and True-man: what

Can it not do, and vndoo? I will make

One of her women Lawyer to me, for

I yet not vnderstand the case my selfe.

By your leaue.

Knockes.

Enter a Lady.

La. Who’s there that knockes?

Clot. A Gentleman

La. No more

Clot. Yes, and a Gentlewomans Sonne

La. That’s more

Then some whose Taylors are as deere as yours,

Can iustly boast of: what’s your Lordships pleasure?

Clot. Your Ladies person, is she ready?

La. I, to keepe her Chamber

Clot. There is Gold for you,

Sell me your good report

La. How, my good name? or to report of you

What I shall thinke is good. The Princesse.

Enter Imogen.

Clot. Good morrow fairest, Sister your sweet hand

Imo. Good morrow Sir, you lay out too much paines

For purchasing but trouble: the thankes I giue,

Is telling you that I am poore of thankes,

And scarse can spare them

Clot. Still I sweare I loue you

Imo. If you but said so, ‘twere as deepe with me:

If you sweare still, your recompence is still

That I regard it not

Clot. This is no answer

Imo. But that you shall not say, I yeeld being silent,

I would not speake. I pray you spare me, ‘faith

I shall vnfold equall discourtesie

To your best kindnesse: one of your great knowing

Should learne (being taught) forbearance

Clot. To leaue you in your madnesse, ‘twere my sin,

I will not

Imo. Fooles are not mad Folkes

Clot. Do you call me Foole?

Imo. As I am mad I do:

If you’l be patient, Ile no more be mad,

That cures vs both. I am much sorry (Sir)

You put me to forget a Ladies manners

By being so verball: and learne now, for all,

That I which know my heart, do heere pronounce

By th’ very truth of it, I care not for you,

And am so neere the lacke of Charitie

To accuse my selfe, I hate you: which I had rather

You felt, then make’t my boast

Clot. You sinne against

Obedience, which you owe your Father, for

The Contract you pretend with that base Wretch,

One, bred of Almes, and foster’d with cold dishes,

With scraps o’th’ Court: It is no Contract, none;

And though it be allowed in meaner parties

(Yet who then he more meane) to knit their soules

(On whom there is no more dependancie

But Brats and Beggery) in selfe-figur’d knot,

Yet you are curb’d from that enlargement, by

The consequence o’th’ Crowne, and must not foyle

The precious note of it; with a base Slaue,

A Hilding for a Liuorie, a Squires Cloth,

A Pantler; not so eminent

Imo. Prophane Fellow:

Wert thou the Sonne of Iupiter, and no more,

But what thou art besides: thou wer’t too base,

To be his Groome: thou wer’t dignified enough

Euen to the point of Enuie. If ‘twere made

Comparatiue for your Vertues, to be stil’d

The vnder Hangman of his Kingdome; and hated

For being prefer’d so well

Clot. The South-Fog rot him Imo. He neuer can meete more mischance, then come

To be but nam’d of thee. His mean’st Garment

That euer hath but clipt his body; is dearer

In my respect, then all the Heires aboue thee,

Were they all made such men: How now Pisanio?

Enter Pisanio.

Clot. His Garments? Now the diuell

Imo. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently

Clot. His Garment?

Imo. I am sprighted with a Foole,

Frighted, and angred worse: Go bid my woman

Search for a Iewell, that too casually

Hath left mine Arme: it was thy Masters. Shrew me

If I would loose it for a Reuenew,

Of any Kings in Europe. I do think,

I saw’t this morning: Confident I am.

Last night ‘twas on mine Arme; I kiss’d it,

I hope it be not gone, to tell my Lord

That I kisse aught but he

Pis. ‘Twill not be lost

Imo. I hope so: go and search

Clot. You haue abus’d me:

His meanest Garment?

Imo. I, I said so Sir,

If you will make’t an Action, call witnesse to’t

Clot. I will enforme your Father

Imo. Your Mother too:

She’s my good Lady; and will concieue, I hope

But the worst of me. So I leaue you Sir,

To’th’ worst of discontent.

Enter.

Clot. Ile be reueng’d:

His mean’st Garment? Well.

Enter.