Читать книгу Cymbeline (The Unabridged Play) + The Classic Biography: The Life of William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare - Страница 21

Enter Pisanio and Imogen.

Imo. Thou told’st me when we came fro[m] horse, y place

Was neere at hand: Ne’re long’d my Mother so

To see me first, as I haue now. Pisanio, Man:

Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind

That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh

From th’ inward of thee? One, but painted thus

Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d

Beyond selfe-explication. Put thy selfe

Into a hauiour of lesse feare, ere wildnesse

Vanquish my stayder Senses. What’s the matter?

Why render’st thou that Paper to me, with

A looke vntender? If’t be Summer Newes

Smile too’t before: if Winterly, thou need’st

But keepe that count’nance stil. My Husbands hand?

That Drug-damn’d Italy, hath out-craftied him,

And hee’s at some hard point. Speake man, thy Tongue

May take off some extreamitie, which to reade

Would be euen mortall to me

Pis. Please you reade,

And you shall finde me (wretched man) a thing

The most disdain’d of Fortune

Imogen reades. Thy Mistris (Pisanio) hath plaide the Strumpet in my Bed: the Testimonies whereof, lyes bleeding in me. I speak not out of weake Surmises, but from proofe as strong as my greefe, and as certaine as I expect my Reuenge. That part, thou (Pisanio) must acte for me, if thy Faith be not tainted with the breach of hers; let thine owne hands take away her life: I shall giue thee opportunity at Milford Hauen. She hath my Letter for the purpose; where, if thou feare to strike, and to make mee certaine it is done, thou art the Pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyall Pis. What shall I need to draw my Sword, the Paper

Hath cut her throat alreadie? No, ‘tis Slander,

Whose edge is sharper then the Sword, whose tongue

Out-venomes all the Wormes of Nyle, whose breath

Rides on the posting windes, and doth belye

All corners of the World. Kings, Queenes, and States,

Maides, Matrons, nay the Secrets of the Graue

This viperous slander enters. What cheere, Madam?

Imo. False to his Bed? What is it to be false?

To lye in watch there, and to thinke on him?

To weepe ‘twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge Nature,

To breake it with a fearfull dreame of him,

And cry my selfe awake? That’s false to’s bed? Is it?

Pisa. Alas good Lady

Imo. I false? Thy Conscience witnesse: Iachimo,

Thou didd’st accuse him of Incontinencie,

Thou then look’dst like a Villaine: now, me thinkes

Thy fauours good enough. Some Iay of Italy

(Whose mother was her painting) hath betraid him:

Poore I am stale, a Garment out of fashion,

And for I am richer then to hang by th’ walles,

I must be ript: To peeces with me: Oh!

Mens Vowes are womens Traitors. All good seeming

By thy reuolt (oh Husband) shall be thought

Put on for Villainy; not borne where’t growes,

But worne a Baite for Ladies

Pisa. Good Madam, heare me Imo. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas,

Were in his time thought false: and Synons weeping

Did scandall many a holy teare: tooke pitty

From most true wretchednesse. So thou, Posthumus

Wilt lay the Leauen on all proper men;

Goodly, and gallant, shall be false and periur’d

From thy great faile: Come Fellow, be thou honest,

Do thou thy Masters bidding. When thou seest him,

A little witnesse my obedience. Looke

I draw the Sword my selfe, take it, and hit

The innocent Mansion of my Loue (my Heart:)

Feare not, ‘tis empty of all things, but Greefe:

Thy Master is not there, who was indeede

The riches of it. Do his bidding, strike,

Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause;

But now thou seem’st a Coward

Pis. Hence vile Instrument,

Thou shalt not damne my hand

Imo. Why, I must dye:

And if I do not by thy hand, thou art

No Seruant of thy Masters. Against Selfe-slaughter,

There is a prohibition so Diuine,

That crauens my weake hand: Come, heere’s my heart:

Something’s a-foot: Soft, soft, wee’l no defence,

Obedient as the Scabbard. What is heere,

The Scriptures of the Loyall Leonatus,

All turn’d to Heresie? Away, away

Corrupters of my Faith, you shall no more

Be Stomachers to my heart: thus may pooru Fooles

Beleeue false Teachers: Though those that are betraid

Do feele the Treason sharpely, yet the Traitor

Stands in worse case of woe. And thou Posthumus,

That didd’st set vp my disobedience ‘gainst the King

My Father, and makes me put into contempt the suites

Of Princely Fellowes, shalt heereafter finde

It is no acte of common passage, but

A straine of Rarenesse: and I greeue my selfe,

To thinke, when thou shalt be disedg’d by her,

That now thou tyrest on, how thy memory

Will then be pang’d by me. Prythee dispatch,

The Lambe entreats the Butcher. Wher’s thy knife?

Thou art too slow to do thy Masters bidding

When I desire it too

Pis. Oh gracious Lady:

Since I receiu’d command to do this businesse,

I haue not slept one winke

Imo. Doo’t, and to bed then Pis. Ile wake mine eyeballes first

Imo. Wherefore then

Didd’st vndertake it? Why hast thou abus’d

So many Miles, with a pretence? This place?

Mine Action? and thine owne? Our Horses labour?

The Time inuiting thee? The perturb’d Court

For my being absent? whereunto I neuer

Purpose returne. Why hast thou gone so farre

To be vn-bent? when thou hast ‘tane thy stand,

Th’ elected Deere before thee?

Pis. But to win time

To loose so bad employment, in the which

I haue consider’d of a course: good Ladie

Heare me with patience

Imo. Talke thy tongue weary, speake:

I haue heard I am a Strumpet, and mine eare

Therein false strooke, can take no greater wound,

Nor tent, to bottome that. But speake

Pis. Then Madam,

I thought you would not backe againe

Imo. Most like,

Bringing me heere to kill me

Pis. Not so neither:

But if I were as wise, as honest, then

My purpose would proue well: it cannot be,

But that my Master is abus’d. Some Villaine,

I, and singular in his Art, hath done you both

This cursed iniurie

Imo. Some Roman Curtezan?

Pisa. No, on my life:

Ile giue but notice you are dead, and send him

Some bloody signe of it. For ‘tis commanded

I should do so: you shall be mist at Court,

And that will well confirme it

Imo. Why good Fellow,

What shall I do the while? Where bide? How liue?

Or in my life, what comfort, when I am

Dead to my Husband?

Pis. If you’l backe to’th’ Court

Imo. No Court, no Father, nor no more adoe

With that harsh, noble, simple nothing:

That Clotten, whose Loue-suite hath bene to me

As fearefull as a Siege

Pis. If not at Court,

Then not in Britaine must you bide

Imo. Where then?

Hath Britaine all the Sunne that shines? Day? Night?

Are they not but in Britaine? I’th’ worlds Volume

Our Britaine seemes as of it, but not in’t:

In a great Poole, a Swannes-nest, prythee thinke

There’s liuers out of Britaine

Pis. I am most glad

You thinke of other place: Th’ Ambassador,

Lucius the Romane comes to Milford-Hauen

To morrow. Now, if you could weare a minde

Darke, as your Fortune is, and but disguise

That which t’ appeare it selfe, must not yet be,

But by selfe-danger, you should tread a course

Pretty, and full of view: yea, happily, neere

The residence of Posthumus; so nie (at least)

That though his Actions were not visible, yut

Report should render him hourely to your eare,

As truely as he mooues

Imo. Oh for such meanes,

Though perill to my modestie, not death on’t

I would aduenture

Pis. Well then, heere’s the point:

You must forget to be a Woman: change

Command, into obedience. Feare, and Nicenesse

(The Handmaides of all Women, or more truely

Woman it pretty selfe) into a waggish courage,

Ready in gybes, quicke-answer’d, sawcie, and

As quarrellous as the Weazell: Nay, you must

Forget that rarest Treasure of your Cheeke,

Exposing it (but oh the harder heart,

Alacke no remedy) to the greedy touch

Of common-kissing Titan: and forget

Your laboursome and dainty Trimmes, wherein

You made great Iuno angry

Imo. Nay be breefe?

I see into thy end, and am almost

A man already

Pis. First, make your selfe but like one,

Forethinking this. I haue already fit

(‘Tis in my Cloake-bagge) Doublet, Hat, Hose, all

That answer to them: Would you in their seruing,

(And with what imitation you can borrow

From youth of such a season) ‘fore Noble Lucius

Present your selfe, desire his seruice: tell him

Wherein you’re happy; which will make him know,

If that his head haue eare in Musicke, doubtlesse

With ioy he will imbrace you: for hee’s Honourable,

And doubling that, most holy. Your meanes abroad:

You haue me rich, and I will neuer faile

Beginning, nor supplyment

Imo. Thou art all the comfort

The Gods will diet me with. Prythee away,

There’s more to be consider’d: but wee’l euen

All that good time will giue vs. This attempt,

I am Souldier too, and will abide it with

A Princes Courage. Away, I prythee

Pis. Well Madam, we must take a short farewell,

Least being mist, I be suspected of

Your carriage from the Court. My Noble Mistris,

Heere is a boxe, I had it from the Queene,

What’s in’t is precious: If you are sicke at Sea,

Or Stomacke-qualm’d at Land, a Dramme of this

Will driue away distemper. To some shade,

And fit you to your Manhood: may the Gods

Direct you to the best

Imo. Amen: I thanke thee.

Exeunt.