Читать книгу Cymbeline (The Unabridged Play) + The Classic Biography: The Life of William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare - Страница 35

Enter Posthumus, and Gaoler.

Gao. You shall not now be stolne,

You haue lockes vpon you:

So graze, as you finde Pasture

2.Gao. I, or a stomacke

Post. Most welcome bondage; for thou art a way

(I thinke) to liberty: yet am I better

Then one that’s sicke o’th’ Gowt, since he had rather

Groane so in perpetuity, then be cur’d

By’th’ sure Physitian, Death; who is the key

T’ vnbarre these Lockes. My Conscience, thou art fetter’d

More then my shanks, & wrists: you good Gods giue me

The penitent Instrument to picke that Bolt,

Then free for euer. Is’t enough I am sorry?

So Children temporall Fathers do appease;

Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent,

I cannot do it better then in Gyues,

Desir’d, more then constrain’d, to satisfie

If of my Freedome ‘tis the maine part, take

No stricter render of me, then my All.

I know you are more clement then vilde men,

Who of their broken Debtors take a third,

A sixt, a tenth, letting them thriue againe

On their abatement; that’s not my desire.

For Imogens deere life, take mine, and though

‘Tis not so deere, yet ‘tis a life; you coyn’d it,

‘Tweene man, and man, they waigh not euery stampe:

Though light, take Peeces for the figures sake,

(You rather) mine being yours: and so great Powres,

If you will take this Audit, take this life,

And cancell these cold Bonds. Oh Imogen,

Ile speake to thee in silence.

Solemne Musicke. Enter (as in an Apparation) Sicillius Leonatus, Father to Posthumus, an old man, attyred like a warriour, leading in his hand an ancient Matron (his wife, & Mother to Posthumus) with Musicke before them. Then after other Musicke, followes the two young Leonati (Brothers to Posthumus) with wounds as they died in the warrs. They circle Posthumus round as he lies sleeping.

Sicil. No more thou Thunder-Master shew thy spight, on Mortall Flies: With Mars fall out with Iuno chide, that thy Adulteries Rates, and Reuenges. Hath my poore Boy done ought but well, whose face I neuer saw: I dy’de whil’st in the Wombe he staide, attending Natures Law. Whose Father then (as men report, thou Orphanes Father art) Thou should’st haue bin, and sheelded him, from this earth-vexing smart

Moth. Lucina lent not me her ayde, but tooke me in my Throwes, That from me was Posthumus ript, came crying ‘mong’st his Foes. A thing of pitty

Sicil. Great Nature like his Ancestrie, moulded the stuffe so faire: That he deseru’d the praise o’th’ World, as great Sicilius heyre

1.Bro. When once he was mature for man, in Britaine where was hee That could stand vp his paralell? Or fruitfull obiect bee? In eye of Imogen, that best could deeme his dignitie

Mo. With Marriage wherefore was he mockt to be exil’d, and throwne From Leonati Seate, and cast from her, his deerest one: Sweete Imogen? Sic. Why did you suffer Iachimo, slight thing of Italy, To taint his Nobler hart & braine, with needlesse ielousy, And to become the geeke and scorne o’th’ others vilany? 2 Bro. For this, from stiller Seats we came, our Parents, and vs twaine, That striking in our Countries cause, fell brauely, and were slaine, Our Fealty, & Tenantius right, with Honor to maintaine

1 Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath to Cymbeline perform’d: Then Iupiter, y King of Gods, why hast y thus adiourn’d The Graces for his Merits due, being all to dolors turn’d?

Sicil. Thy Christall window ope; looke, looke out, no longer exercise Vpon a valiant Race, thy harsh, and potent iniuries:

Moth. Since (Iupiter) our Son is good, take off his miseries

Sicil. Peepe through thy Marble Mansion, helpe, or we poore Ghosts will cry To’th’ shining Synod of the rest, against thy Deity

Brothers. Helpe (Iupiter) or we appeale, and from thy iustice flye.

Iupiter descends in Thunder and Lightning, sitting vppon an Eagle: hee throwes a Thunderbolt. The Ghostes fall on their knees.

Iupiter. No more you petty Spirits of Region low

Offend our hearing: hush. How dare you Ghostes

Accuse the Thunderer, whose Bolt (you know)

Sky-planted, batters all rebelling Coasts.

Poore shadowes of Elizium, hence, and rest

Vpon your neuer-withering bankes of Flowres.

Be not with mortall accidents opprest,

No care of yours it is, you know ‘tis ours.

Whom best I loue, I crosse; to make my guift

The more delay’d, delighted. Be content,

Your low-laide Sonne, our Godhead will vplift:

His Comforts thriue, his Trials well are spent:

Our Iouiall Starre reign’d at his Birth, and in

Our Temple was he married: Rise, and fade,

He shall be Lord of Lady Imogen,

And happier much by his Affliction made

This Tablet lay vpon his Brest, wherein

Our pleasure, his full Fortune, doth confine,

And so away: no farther with your dinne

Expresse Impatience, least you stirre vp mine:

Mount Eagle, to my Palace Christalline.

Ascends Sicil. He came in Thunder, his Celestiall breath

Was sulphurous to smell: the holy Eagle

Stoop’d, as to foote vs: his Ascension is

More sweet then our blest Fields: his Royall Bird

Prunes the immortall wing, and cloyes his Beake,

As when his God is pleas’d

All. Thankes Iupiter

Sic. The Marble Pauement clozes, he is enter’d

His radiant Roofe: Away, and to be blest

Let vs with care performe his great behest.

Vanish

Post. Sleepe, thou hast bin a Grandsire, and begot

A Father to me: and thou hast created

A Mother, and two Brothers. But (oh scorne)

Gone, they went hence so soone as they were borne:

And so I am awake. Poore Wretches, that depend

On Greatnesse, Fauour; Dreame as I haue done,

Wake, and finde nothing. But (alas) I swerue:

Many Dreame not to finde, neither deserue,

And yet are steep’d in Fauours; so am I

That haue this Golden chance, and know not why:

What Fayeries haunt this ground? A Book? Oh rare one,

Be not, as is our fangled world, a Garment

Nobler then that it couers. Let thy effects

So follow, to be most vnlike our Courtiers,

As good, as promise.

Reades.

When as a Lyons whelpe, shall to himselfe vnknown, without seeking finde, and bee embrac’d by a peece of tender Ayre: And when from a stately Cedar shall be lopt branches, which being dead many yeares, shall after reuiue, bee ioynted to the old Stocke, and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britaine be fortunate, and flourish in Peace and Plentie. ‘Tis still a Dreame: or else such stuffe as Madmen Tongue, and braine not: either both, or nothing Or senselesse speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot vntye. Be what it is, The Action of my life is like it, which Ile keepe If but for simpathy. Enter Gaoler.

Gao. Come Sir, are you ready for death?

Post. Ouer-roasted rather: ready long ago

Gao. Hanging is the word, Sir, if you bee readie for

that, you are well Cook’d

Post. So if I proue a good repast to the Spectators, the

dish payes the shot

Gao. A heauy reckoning for you Sir: But the comfort is you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more Tauerne Bils, which are often the sadnesse of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in faint for want of meate, depart reeling with too much drinke: sorrie that you haue payed too much, and sorry that you are payed too much: Purse and Braine, both empty: the Brain the heauier, for being too light; the Purse too light, being drawne of heauinesse. Oh, of this contradiction you shall now be quit: Oh the charity of a penny Cord, it summes vp thousands in a trice: you haue no true Debitor, and Creditor but it: of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge: your necke (Sir) is Pen, Booke, and Counters; so the Acquittance followes Post. I am merrier to dye, then thou art to liue

Gao. Indeed Sir, he that sleepes, feeles not the ToothAche: but a man that were to sleepe your sleepe, and a Hangman to helpe him to bed, I think he would change places with his Officer: for, look you Sir, you know not which way you shall go

Post. Yes indeed do I, fellow

Gao. Your death has eyes in’s head then: I haue not seene him so pictur’d: you must either bee directed by some that take vpon them to know, or to take vpon your selfe that which I am sure you do not know: or iump the after-enquiry on your owne perill: and how you shall speed in your iournies end, I thinke you’l neuer returne to tell one

Post. I tell thee, Fellow, there are none want eyes, to direct them the way I am going, but such as winke, and will not vse them

Gao. What an infinite mocke is this, that a man shold haue the best vse of eyes, to see the way of blindnesse: I am sure hanging’s the way of winking. Enter a Messenger.

Mes. Knocke off his Manacles, bring your Prisoner to

the King

Post. Thou bring’st good newes, I am call’d to bee

made free

Gao. Ile be hang’d then

Post. Thou shalt be then freer then a Gaoler; no bolts for the dead

Gao. Vnlesse a man would marry a Gallowes, & beget yong Gibbets, I neuer saw one so prone: yet on my Conscience, there are verier Knaues desire to liue, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that dye against their willes; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one minde, and one minde good: O there were desolation of Gaolers and Galowses: I speake against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in’t.

Exeunt.