Читать книгу Cymbeline (The Unabridged Play) + The Classic Biography: The Life of William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare - Страница 28

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, and Imogen from the Caue.

Bel. You are not well: Remaine heere in the Caue,

Wee’l come to you after Hunting

Arui. Brother, stay heere:

Are we not Brothers?

Imo. So man and man should be,

But Clay and Clay, differs in dignitie,

Whose dust is both alike. I am very sicke,

Gui. Go you to Hunting, Ile abide with him

Imo. So sicke I am not, yet I am not well:

But not so Citizen a wanton, as

To seeme to dye, ere sicke: So please you, leaue me,

Sticke to your Iournall course: the breach of Custome,

Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me

Cannot amend me. Society, is no comfort

To one not sociable: I am not very sicke,

Since I can reason of it: pray you trust me heere,

Ile rob none but my selfe, and let me dye

Stealing so poorely

Gui. I loue thee: I haue spoke it,

How much the quantity, the waight as much,

As I do loue my Father

Bel. What? How? how?

Arui. If it be sinne to say so (Sir) I yoake mee

In my good Brothers fault: I know not why

I loue this youth, and I haue heard you say,

Loue’s reason’s, without reason. The Beere at doore,

And a demand who is’t shall dye, I’ld say

My Father, not this youth

Bel. Oh noble straine!

O worthinesse of Nature, breed of Greatnesse!

“Cowards father Cowards, & Base things Syre Bace;

“Nature hath Meale, and Bran; Contempt, and Grace.

I’me not their Father, yet who this should bee,

Doth myracle it selfe, lou’d before mee.

‘Tis the ninth houre o’th’ Morne

Arui. Brother, farewell Imo. I wish ye sport

Arui. You health. - So please you Sir

Imo. These are kinde Creatures.

Gods, what lyes I haue heard:

Our Courtiers say, all’s sauage, but at Court;

Experience, oh thou disproou’st Report.

Th’ emperious Seas breeds Monsters; for the Dish,

Poore Tributary Riuers, as sweet Fish:

I am sicke still, heart-sicke; Pisanio,

Ile now taste of thy Drugge

Gui. I could not stirre him:

He said he was gentle, but vnfortunate;

Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest

Arui. Thus did he answer me: yet said heereafter,

I might know more

Bel. To’th’ Field, to’th’ Field:

Wee’l leaue you for this time, go in, and rest

Arui. Wee’l not be long away

Bel. Pray be not sicke,

For you must be our Huswife

Imo. Well, or ill,

I am bound to you.

Enter.

Bel. And shal’t be euer.

This youth, how ere distrest, appeares he hath had

Good Ancestors

Arui. How Angell-like he sings?

Gui. But his neate Cookerie?

Arui. He cut our Rootes in Charracters,

And sawc’st our Brothes, as Iuno had bin sicke,

And he her Dieter

Arui. Nobly he yoakes

A smiling, with a sigh; as if the sighe

Was that it was, for not being such a Smile:

The Smile, mocking the Sigh, that it would flye

From so diuine a Temple, to commix

With windes, that Saylors raile at

Gui. I do note,

That greefe and patience rooted in them both,

Mingle their spurres together

Arui. Grow patient,

And let the stinking-Elder (Greefe) vntwine

His perishing roote, with the encreasing Vine

Bel. It is great morning. Come away: Who’s there?

Enter Cloten.

Clo. I cannot finde those Runnagates, that Villaine

Hath mock’d me. I am faint

Bel. Those Runnagates?

Meanes he not vs? I partly know him, ‘tis

Cloten, the Sonne o’th’ Queene. I feare some Ambush:

I saw him not these many yeares, and yet

I know ‘tis he: We are held as OutLawes: Hence

Gui. He is but one: you, and my Brother search

What Companies are neere: pray you away,

Let me alone with him

Clot. Soft, what are you

That flye me thus? Some villaine-Mountainers?

I haue heard of such. What Slaue art thou?

Gui. A thing

More slauish did I ne’re, then answering

A Slaue without a knocke

Clot. Thou art a Robber,

A Law-breaker, a Villaine: yeeld thee Theefe

Gui. To who? to thee? What art thou? Haue not I

An arme as bigge as thine? A heart, as bigge:

Thy words I grant are bigger: for I weare not

My Dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art:

Why I should yeeld to thee?

Clot. Thou Villaine base,

Know’st me not by my Cloathes?

Gui. No, nor thy Taylor, Rascall:

Who is thy Grandfather? He made those cloathes,

Which (as it seemes) make thee

Clo. Thou precious Varlet,

My Taylor made them not

Gui. Hence then, and thanke

The man that gaue them thee. Thou art some Foole,

I am loath to beate thee

Clot. Thou iniurious Theefe,

Heare but my name, and tremble

Gui. What’s thy name?

Clo. Cloten, thou Villaine

Gui. Cloten, thou double Villaine be thy name,

I cannot tremble at it, were it Toad, or Adder, Spider,

‘Twould moue me sooner

Clot. To thy further feare,

Nay, to thy meere Confusion, thou shalt know

I am Sonne to’th’ Queene

Gui. I am sorry for’t: not seeming

So worthy as thy Birth

Clot. Art not afeard?

Gui. Those that I reuerence, those I feare: the Wise:

At Fooles I laugh: not feare them

Clot. Dye the death:

When I haue slaine thee with my proper hand,

Ile follow those that euen now fled hence:

And on the Gates of Luds-Towne set your heads:

Yeeld Rusticke Mountaineer.

Fight and Exeunt.

Enter Belarius and Aruiragus.

Bel. No Companie’s abroad?

Arui. None in the world: you did mistake him sure

Bel. I cannot tell: Long is it since I saw him,

But Time hath nothing blurr’d those lines of Fauour

Which then he wore: the snatches in his voice,

And burst of speaking were as his: I am absolute

‘Twas very Cloten

Arui. In this place we left them;

I wish my Brother make good time with him,

You say he is so fell

Bel. Being scarse made vp,

I meane to man; he had not apprehension

Of roaring terrors: For defect of iudgement

Is oft the cause of Feare.

Enter Guiderius.

But see thy Brother

Gui. This Cloten was a Foole, an empty purse,

There was no money in’t: Not Hercules

Could haue knock’d out his Braines, for he had none:

Yet I not doing this, the Foole had borne

My head, as I do his

Bel. What hast thou done?

Gui. I am perfect what: cut off one Clotens head,

Sonne to the Queene (after his owne report)

Who call’d me Traitor, Mountaineer, and swore

With his owne single hand heel’d take vs in,

Displace our heads, where (thanks the Gods) they grow

And set them on Luds-Towne

Bel. We are all vndone

Gui. Why, worthy Father, what haue we to loose,

But that he swore to take our Liues? the Law

Protects not vs, then why should we be tender,

To let an arrogant peece of flesh threat vs?

Play Iudge, and Executioner, all himselfe?

For we do feare the Law. What company

Discouer you abroad?

Bel. No single soule

Can we set eye on: but in all safe reason

He must haue some Attendants. Though his Honor

Was nothing but mutation, I, and that

From one bad thing to worse: Not Frenzie,

Not absolute madnesse could so farre haue rau’d

To bring him heere alone: although perhaps

It may be heard at Court, that such as wee

Caue heere, hunt heere, are Outlawes, and in time

May make some stronger head, the which he hearing,

(As it is like him) might breake out, and sweare

Heel’d fetch vs in, yet is’t not probable

To come alone, either he so vndertaking,

Or they so suffering: then on good ground we feare,

If we do feare this Body hath a taile

More perillous then the head

Arui. Let Ord’nance

Come as the Gods fore-say it: howsoere,

My Brother hath done well

Bel. I had no minde

To hunt this day: The Boy Fideles sickenesse

Did make my way long forth

Gui. With his owne Sword,

Which he did waue against my throat, I haue tane

His head from him: Ile throw’t into the Creeke

Behinde our Rocke, and let it to the Sea,

And tell the Fishes, hee’s the Queenes Sonne, Cloten,

That’s all I reake.

Enter.

Bel. I feare ‘twill be reueng’d:

Would (Polidore) thou had’st not done’t: though valour

Becomes thee well enough

Arui. Would I had done’t:

So the Reuenge alone pursu’de me: Polidore

I loue thee brotherly, but enuy much

Thou hast robb’d me of this deed: I would Reuenges

That possible strength might meet, wold seek vs through

And put vs to our answer

Bel. Well, ‘tis done:

Wee’l hunt no more to day, nor seeke for danger

Where there’s no profit. I prythee to our Rocke,

You and Fidele play the Cookes: Ile stay

Till hasty Polidore returne, and bring him

To dinner presently

Arui. Poore sicke Fidele.

Ile willingly to him, to gaine his colour,

Il’d let a parish of such Clotens blood,

And praise my selfe for charity.

Enter.

Bel. Oh thou Goddesse,

Thou diuine Nature; thou thy selfe thou blazon’st

In these two Princely Boyes: they are as gentle

As Zephires blowing below the Violet,

Not wagging his sweet head; and yet, as rough

(Their Royall blood enchaf’d) as the rud’st winde,

That by the top doth take the Mountaine Pine,

And make him stoope to th’ Vale. ‘Tis wonder

That an inuisible instinct should frame them

To Royalty vnlearn’d, Honor vntaught,

Ciuility not seene from other: valour

That wildely growes in them, but yeelds a crop

As if it had beene sow’d: yet still it’s strange

What Clotens being heere to vs portends,

Or what his death will bring vs.

Enter Guidereus.

Gui. Where’s my Brother?

I haue sent Clotens Clotpole downe the streame,

In Embassie to his Mother; his Bodie’s hostage

For his returne.

Solemn Musick.

Bel. My ingenuous Instrument,

(Hearke Polidore) it sounds: but what occasion

Hath Cadwal now to giue it motion? Hearke

Gui. Is he at home?

Bel. He went hence euen now

Gui. What does he meane?

Since death of my deer’st Mother

It did not speake before. All solemne things

Should answer solemne Accidents. The matter?

Triumphes for nothing, and lamenting Toyes,

Is iollity for Apes, and greefe for Boyes.

Is Cadwall mad?

Enter Aruiragus, with Imogen dead, bearing her in his Armes.

Bel. Looke, heere he comes,

And brings the dire occasion in his Armes,

Of what we blame him for

Arui. The Bird is dead

That we haue made so much on. I had rather

Haue skipt from sixteene yeares of Age, to sixty:

To haue turn’d my leaping time into a Crutch,

Then haue seene this

Gui. Oh sweetest, fayrest Lilly:

My Brother weares thee not the one halfe so well,

As when thou grew’st thy selfe

Bel. Oh Melancholly,

Who euer yet could sound thy bottome? Finde

The Ooze, to shew what Coast thy sluggish care

Might’st easilest harbour in. Thou blessed thing,

Ioue knowes what man thou might’st haue made: but I,

Thou dyed’st a most rare Boy, of Melancholly.

How found you him?

Arui. Starke, as you see:

Thus smiling, as some Fly had tickled slumber,

Not as deaths dart being laugh’d at: his right Cheeke

Reposing on a Cushion

Gui. Where?

Arui. O’th’ floore:

His armes thus leagu’d, I thought he slept, and put

My clowted Brogues from off my feete, whose rudenesse

Answer’d my steps too lowd

Gui. Why, he but sleepes:

If he be gone, hee’l make his Graue, a Bed:

With female Fayries will his Tombe be haunted,

And Wormes will not come to thee

Arui. With fayrest Flowers

Whil’st Sommer lasts, and I liue heere, Fidele,

Ile sweeten thy sad graue: thou shalt not lacke

The Flower that’s like thy face. Pale-Primrose, nor

The azur’d Hare-Bell, like thy Veines: no, nor

The leafe of Eglantine, whom not to slander,

Out-sweetned not thy breath: the Raddocke would

With Charitable bill (Oh bill sore shaming

Those rich-left-heyres, that let their Fathers lye

Without a Monument) bring thee all this,

Yea, and furr’d Mosse besides. When Flowres are none

To winter-ground thy Coarse-

Gui. Prythee haue done,

And do not play in Wench-like words with that

Which is so serious. Let vs bury him,

And not protract with admiration, what

Is now due debt. To’th’ graue

Arui. Say, where shall’s lay him?

Gui. By good Euriphile, our Mother

Arui. Bee’t so:

And let vs (Polidore) though now our voyces

Haue got the mannish cracke, sing him to’th’ ground

As once to our Mother: vse like note, and words,

Saue that Euriphile, must be Fidele

Gui. Cadwall,

I cannot sing: Ile weepe, and word it with thee;

For Notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse

Then Priests, and Phanes that lye

Arui. Wee’l speake it then Bel. Great greefes I see med’cine the lesse: For Cloten

Is quite forgot. He was a Queenes Sonne, Boyes,

And though he came our Enemy, remember

He was paid for that: though meane, and mighty rotting

Together haue one dust, yet Reuerence

(That Angell of the world) doth make distinction

Of place ‘tweene high, and low. Our Foe was Princely,

And though you tooke his life, as being our Foe,

Yet bury him, as a Prince

Gui. Pray you fetch him hither,

Thersites body is as good as Aiax,

When neyther are aliue

Arui. If you’l go fetch him,

Wee’l say our Song the whil’st: Brother begin

Gui. Nay Cadwall, we must lay his head to th’ East,

My Father hath a reason for’t

Arui. ‘Tis true

Gui. Come on then, and remoue him

Arui. So, begin.

SONG.

Guid. Feare no more the heate o’th’ Sun,

Nor the furious Winters rages,

Thou thy worldly task hast don,

Home art gon, and tane thy wages.

Golden Lads, and Girles all must,

As Chimney-Sweepers come to dust

Arui. Feare no more the frowne o’th’ Great,

Thou art past the Tirants stroake,

Care no more to cloath and eate,

To thee the Reede is as the Oake:

The Scepter, Learning, Physicke must,

All follow this and come to dust

Guid. Feare no more the Lightning flash

Arui. Nor th’ all-dreaded Thunderstone

Gui. Feare not Slander, Censure rash

Arui. Thou hast finish’d Ioy and mone

Both. All Louers young, all Louers must,

Consigne to thee and come to dust

Guid. No Exorcisor harme thee,

Arui. Nor no witchcraft charme thee

Guid. Ghost vnlaid forbeare thee

Arui. Nothing ill come neere thee

Both. Quiet consumation haue,

And renowned be thy graue.

Enter Belarius with the body of Cloten.

Gui. We haue done our obsequies:

Come lay him downe

Bel. Heere’s a few Flowres, but ‘bout midnight more:

The hearbes that haue on them cold dew o’th’ night

Are strewings fit’st for Graues: vpon their Faces.

You were as Flowres, now wither’d: euen so

These Herbelets shall, which we vpon you strew.

Come on, away, apart vpon our knees:

The ground that gaue them first, ha’s them againe:

Their pleasures here are past, so are their paine.

Exeunt.

Imogen awakes.

Yes Sir, to Milford-Hauen, which is the way?

I thanke you: by yond bush? pray how farre thether?

‘Ods pittikins: can it be sixe mile yet?

I haue gone all night: ‘Faith, Ile lye downe, and sleepe.

But soft; no Bedfellow? Oh Gods, and Goddesses!

These Flowres are like the pleasures of the World;

This bloody man the care on’t. I hope I dreame:

For so I thought I was a Caue-keeper,

And Cooke to honest Creatures. But ‘tis not so:

‘Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot of nothing,

Which the Braine makes of Fumes. Our very eyes,

Are sometimes like our Iudgements, blinde. Good faith

I tremble still with feare: but if there be

Yet left in Heauen, as small a drop of pittie

As a Wrens eye; fear’d Gods, a part of it.

The Dreame’s heere still: euen when I wake it is

Without me, as within me: not imagin’d, felt.

A headlesse man? The Garments of Posthumus?

I know the shape of’s Legge: this is his Hand:

His Foote Mercuriall: his martiall Thigh

The brawnes of Hercules: but his Iouiall face-

Murther in heauen? How? ‘tis gone. Pisanio,

All Curses madded Hecuba gaue the Greekes,

And mine to boot, be darted on thee: thou

Conspir’d with that Irregulous diuell Cloten,

Hath heere cut off my Lord. To write, and read,

Be henceforth treacherous. Damn’d Pisanio,

Hath with his forged Letters (damn’d Pisanio)

From this most brauest vessell of the world

Strooke the maine top! Oh Posthumus, alas,

Where is thy head? where’s that? Aye me! where’s that?

Pisanio might haue kill’d thee at the heart,

And left this head on. How should this be, Pisanio?

‘Tis he, and Cloten: Malice, and Lucre in them

Haue laid this Woe heere. Oh ‘tis pregnant, pregnant!

The Drugge he gaue me, which hee said was precious

And Cordiall to me, haue I not found it

Murd’rous to’th’ Senses? That confirmes it home:

This is Pisanio’s deede, and Cloten: Oh!

Giue colour to my pale cheeke with thy blood,

That we the horrider may seeme to those

Which chance to finde vs. Oh, my Lord! my Lord!

Enter Lucius, Captaines, and a Soothsayer.

Cap. To them, the Legions garrison’d in Gallia

After your will, haue crost the Sea, attending

You heere at Milford-Hauen, with your Shippes:

They are heere in readinesse

Luc. But what from Rome?

Cap. The Senate hath stirr’d vp the Confiners,

And Gentlemen of Italy, most willing Spirits,

That promise Noble Seruice: and they come

Vnder the Conduct of bold Iachimo,

Syenna’s Brother

Luc. When expect you them?

Cap. With the next benefit o’th’ winde

Luc. This forwardnesse

Makes our hopes faire. Command our present numbers

Be muster’d: bid the Captaines looke too’t. Now Sir,

What haue you dream’d of late of this warres purpose

Sooth. Last night, the very Gods shew’d me a vision

(I fast, and pray’d for their Intelligence) thus:

I saw Ioues Bird, the Roman Eagle wing’d

From the spungy South, to this part of the West,

There vanish’d in the Sun-beames, which portends

(Vnlesse my sinnes abuse my Diuination)

Successe to th’ Roman hoast

Luc. Dreame often so,

And neuer false. Soft hoa, what truncke is heere?

Without his top? The ruine speakes, that sometime

It was a worthy building. How? a Page?

Or dead, or sleeping on him? But dead rather:

For Nature doth abhorre to make his bed

With the defunct, or sleepe vpon the dead.

Let’s see the Boyes face

Cap. Hee’s aliue my Lord Luc. Hee’l then instruct vs of this body: Young one,

Informe vs of thy Fortunes, for it seemes

They craue to be demanded: who is this

Thou mak’st thy bloody Pillow? Or who was he

That (otherwise then noble Nature did)

Hath alter’d that good Picture? What’s thy interest

In this sad wracke? How came’t? Who is’t?

What art thou?

Imo. I am nothing; or if not,

Nothing to be were better: This was my Master,

A very valiant Britaine, and a good,

That heere by Mountaineers lyes slaine: Alas,

There is no more such Masters: I may wander

From East to Occident, cry out for Seruice,

Try many, all good: serue truly: neuer

Finde such another Master

Luc. ‘Lacke, good youth:

Thou mou’st no lesse with thy complaining, then

Thy Maister in bleeding: say his name, good Friend

Imo. Richard du Champ: If I do lye, and do

No harme by it, though the Gods heare, I hope

They’l pardon it. Say you Sir?

Luc. Thy name?

Imo. Fidele Sir

Luc. Thou doo’st approue thy selfe the very same:

Thy Name well fits thy Faith; thy Faith, thy Name:

Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say

Thou shalt be so well master’d, but be sure

No lesse belou’d. The Romane Emperors Letters

Sent by a Consull to me, should not sooner

Then thine owne worth preferre thee: Go with me

Imo. Ile follow Sir. But first, and’t please the Gods,

Ile hide my Master from the Flies, as deepe

As these poore Pickaxes can digge: and when

With wild wood-leaues & weeds, I ha’ strew’d his graue

And on it said a Century of prayers

(Such as I can) twice o’re, Ile weepe, and sighe,

And leauing so his seruice, follow you,

So please you entertaine mee

Luc. I good youth,

And rather Father thee, then Master thee: My Friends,

The Boy hath taught vs manly duties: Let vs

Finde out the prettiest Dazied-Plot we can,

And make him with our Pikes and Partizans

A Graue: Come, Arme him: Boy hee’s preferr’d

By thee, to vs, and he shall be interr’d

As Souldiers can. Be cheerefull; wipe thine eyes,

Some Falles are meanes the happier to arise.

Exeunt.