Читать книгу Cymbeline (The Unabridged Play) + The Classic Biography: The Life of William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare - Страница 36

Enter Cymbeline, Bellarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, Pisanio, and

Lords.

Cym. Stand by my side you, whom the Gods haue made

Preseruers of my Throne: woe is my heart,

That the poore Souldier that so richly fought,

Whose ragges, sham’d gilded Armes, whose naked brest

Stept before Targes of proofe, cannot be found:

He shall be happy that can finde him, if

Our Grace can make him so

Bel. I neuer saw

Such Noble fury in so poore a Thing;

Such precious deeds, in one that promist nought

But beggery, and poore lookes

Cym. No tydings of him?

Pisa. He hath bin search’d among the dead, & liuing;

But no trace of him

Cym. To my greefe, I am

The heyre of his Reward, which I will adde

To you (the Liuer, Heart, and Braine of Britaine)

By whom (I grant) she liues. ‘Tis now the time

To aske of whence you are. Report it

Bel. Sir,

In Cambria are we borne, and Gentlemen:

Further to boast, were neyther true, nor modest,

Vnlesse I adde, we are honest

Cym. Bow your knees:

Arise my Knights o’th’ Battell, I create you

Companions to our person, and will fit you

With Dignities becomming your estates.

Enter Cornelius and Ladies.

There’s businesse in these faces: why so sadly

Greet you our Victory? you looke like Romaines,

And not o’th’ Court of Britaine

Corn. Hayle great King,

To sowre your happinesse, I must report

The Queene is dead

Cym. Who worse then a Physitian

Would this report become? But I consider,

By Med’cine life may be prolong’d, yet death

Will seize the Doctor too. How ended she?

Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life,

Which (being cruell to the world) concluded

Most cruell to her selfe. What she confest,

I will report, so please you. These her Women

Can trip me, if I erre, who with wet cheekes

Were present when she finish’d

Cym. Prythee say Cor. First, she confest she neuer lou’d you: onely

Affected Greatnesse got by you: not you:

Married your Royalty, was wife to your place:

Abhorr’d your person

Cym. She alone knew this:

And but she spoke it dying, I would not

Beleeue her lips in opening it. Proceed

Corn. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to loue

With such integrity, she did confesse

Was as a Scorpion to her sight, whose life

(But that her flight preuented it) she had

Tane off by poyson

Cym. O most delicate Fiend!

Who is’t can reade a Woman? Is there more?

Corn. More Sir, and worse. She did confesse she had

For you a mortall Minerall, which being tooke,

Should by the minute feede on life, and ling’ring,

By inches waste you. In which time, she purpos’d

By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to

Orecome you with her shew; and in time

(When she had fitted you with her craft, to worke

Her Sonne into th’ adoption of the Crowne:

But fayling of her end by his strange absence,

Grew shamelesse desperate, open’d (in despight

Of Heauen, and Men) her purposes: repented

The euils she hatch’d, were not effected: so

Dispayring, dyed

Cym. Heard you all this, her Women?

La. We did, so please your Highnesse

Cym. Mine eyes

Were not in fault, for she was beautifull:

Mine eares that heare her flattery, nor my heart,

That thought her like her seeming. It had beene vicious

To haue mistrusted her: yet (Oh my Daughter)

That it was folly in me, thou mayst say,

And proue it in thy feeling. Heauen mend all.

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prisoners, Leonatus

behind, and

Imogen.

Thou comm’st not Caius now for Tribute, that

The Britaines haue rac’d out, though with the losse

Of many a bold one: whose Kinsmen haue made suite

That their good soules may be appeas’d, with slaughter

Of you their Captiues, which our selfe haue granted,

So thinke of your estate

Luc. Consider Sir, the chance of Warre, the day

Was yours by accident: had it gone with vs,

We should not when the blood was cool, haue threatend

Our Prisoners with the Sword. But since the Gods

Will haue it thus, that nothing but our liues

May be call’d ransome, let it come: Sufficeth,

A Roman, with a Romans heart can suffer:

Augustus liues to thinke on’t: and so much

For my peculiar care. This one thing onely

I will entreate, my Boy (a Britaine borne)

Let him be ransom’d: Neuer Master had

A Page so kinde, so duteous, diligent,

So tender ouer his occasions, true,

So feate, so Nurse-like: let his vertue ioyne

With my request, which Ile make bold your Highnesse

Cannot deny: he hath done no Britaine harme,

Though he haue seru’d a Roman. Saue him (Sir)

And spare no blood beside

Cym. I haue surely seene him:

His fauour is familiar to me: Boy,

Thou hast look’d thy selfe into my grace,

And art mine owne. I know not why, wherefore,

To say, liue boy: ne’re thanke thy Master, liue;

And aske of Cymbeline what Boone thou wilt,

Fitting my bounty, and thy state, Ile giue it:

Yea, though thou do demand a Prisoner

The Noblest tane

Imo. I humbly thanke your Highnesse Luc. I do not bid thee begge my life, good Lad,

And yet I know thou wilt

Imo. No, no, alacke,

There’s other worke in hand: I see a thing

Bitter to me, as death: your life, good Master,

Must shuffle for it selfe

Luc. The Boy disdaines me,

He leaues me, scornes me: briefely dye their ioyes,

That place them on the truth of Gyrles, and Boyes.

Why stands he so perplext?

Cym. What would’st thou Boy?

I loue thee more, and more: thinke more and more

What’s best to aske. Know’st him thou look’st on? speak

Wilt haue him liue? Is he thy Kin? thy Friend?

Imo. He is a Romane, no more kin to me,

Then I to your Highnesse, who being born your vassaile

Am something neerer

Cym. Wherefore ey’st him so?

Imo. Ile tell you (Sir) in priuate, if you please

To giue me hearing

Cym. I, with all my heart,

And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?

Imo. Fidele Sir

Cym. Thou’rt my good youth: my Page

Ile be thy Master: walke with me: speake freely

Bel. Is not this Boy reuiu’d from death?

Arui. One Sand another

Not more resembles that sweet Rosie Lad:

Who dyed, and was Fidele: what thinke you?

Gui. The same dead thing aliue

Bel. Peace, peace, see further: he eyes vs not, forbeare

Creatures may be alike: were’t he, I am sure

He would haue spoke to vs

Gui. But we see him dead Bel. Be silent: let’s see further

Pisa. It is my Mistris:

Since she is liuing, let the time run on,

To good, or bad

Cym. Come, stand thou by our side,

Make thy demand alowd. Sir, step you forth,

Giue answer to this Boy, and do it freely,

Or by our Greatnesse, and the grace of it

(Which is our Honor) bitter torture shall

Winnow the truth from falshood. One speake to him

Imo. My boone is, that this Gentleman may render

Of whom he had this Ring

Post. What’s that to him?

Cym. That Diamond vpon your Finger, say

How came it yours?

Iach. Thou’lt torture me to leaue vnspoken, that

Which to be spoke, wou’d torture thee

Cym. How? me?

Iach. I am glad to be constrain’d to vtter that

Which torments me to conceale. By Villany

I got this Ring: ‘twas Leonatus Iewell,

Whom thou did’st banish: and which more may greeue thee,

As it doth me: a Nobler Sir, ne’re liu’d

‘Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou heare more my Lord?

Cym. All that belongs to this

Iach. That Paragon, thy daughter,

For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits

Quaile to remember. Giue me leaue, I faint

Cym. My Daughter? what of hir? Renew thy strength

I had rather thou should’st liue, while Nature will,

Then dye ere I heare more: striue man, and speake

Iach. Vpon a time, vnhappy was the clocke

That strooke the houre: it was in Rome, accurst

The Mansion where: ‘twas at a Feast, oh would

Our Viands had bin poyson’d (or at least

Those which I heau’d to head:) the good Posthumus,

(What should I say? he was too good to be

Where ill men were, and was the best of all

Among’st the rar’st of good ones) sitting sadly,

Hearing vs praise our Loues of Italy

For Beauty, that made barren the swell’d boast

Of him that best could speake: for Feature, laming

The Shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerua,

Postures, beyond breefe Nature. For Condition,

A shop of all the qualities, that man

Loues woman for, besides that hooke of Wiuing,

Fairenesse, which strikes the eye

Cym. I stand on fire. Come to the matter Iach. All too soone I shall,

Vnlesse thou would’st greeue quickly. This Posthumus,

Most like a Noble Lord, in loue, and one

That had a Royall Louer, tooke his hint,

And (not dispraising whom we prais’d, therein

He was as calme as vertue) he began

His Mistris picture, which, by his tongue, being made,

And then a minde put in’t, either our bragges

Were crak’d of Kitchin-Trulles, or his description

Prou’d vs vnspeaking sottes

Cym. Nay, nay, to’th’ purpose

Iach. Your daughters Chastity, (there it beginnes)

He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreames,

And she alone, were cold: Whereat, I wretch

Made scruple of his praise, and wager’d with him

Peeces of Gold, ‘gainst this, which then he wore

Vpon his honour’d finger) to attaine

In suite the place of’s bed, and winne this Ring

By hers, and mine Adultery: he (true Knight)

No lesser of her Honour confident

Then I did truly finde her, stakes this Ring,

And would so, had it beene a Carbuncle

Of Phoebus Wheele; and might so safely, had it

Bin all the worth of’s Carre. Away to Britaine

Poste I in this designe: Well may you (Sir)

Remember me at Court, where I was taught

Of your chaste Daughter, the wide difference

‘Twixt Amorous, and Villanous. Being thus quench’d

Of hope, not longing; mine Italian braine,

Gan in your duller Britaine operate

Most vildely: for my vantage excellent.

And to be breefe, my practise so preuayl’d

That I return’d with simular proofe enough,

To make the Noble Leonatus mad,

By wounding his beleefe in her Renowne,

With Tokens thus, and thus: auerring notes

Of Chamber-hanging, Pictures, this her Bracelet

(Oh cunning how I got) nay some markes

Of secret on her person, that he could not

But thinke her bond of Chastity quite crack’d,

I hauing ‘tane the forfeyt. Whereupon,

Me thinkes I see him now

Post. I so thou do’st,

Italian Fiend. Aye me, most credulous Foole,

Egregious murtherer, Theefe, any thing

That’s due to all the Villaines past, in being

To come. Oh giue me Cord, or knife, or poyson,

Some vpright Iusticer. Thou King, send out

For Torturors ingenious: it is I

That all th’ abhorred things o’th’ earth amend

By being worse then they. I am Posthumus,

That kill’d thy Daughter: Villain-like, I lye,

That caus’d a lesser villaine then my selfe,

A sacrilegious Theefe to doo’t. The Temple

Of Vertue was she; yea, and she her selfe.

Spit, and throw stones, cast myre vpon me, set

The dogges o’th’ street to bay me: euery villaine

Be call’d Posthumus Leonatus, and

Be villany lesse then ‘twas. Oh Imogen!

My Queene, my life, my wife: oh Imogen,

Imogen, Imogen

Imo. Peace my Lord, heare, heare Post. Shall’s haue a play of this?

Thou scornfull Page, there lye thy part

Pis. Oh Gentlemen, helpe,

Mine and your Mistris: Oh my Lord Posthumus,

You ne’re kill’d Imogen till now: helpe, helpe,

Mine honour’d Lady

Cym. Does the world go round?

Posth. How comes these staggers on mee?

Pisa. Wake my Mistris

Cym. If this be so, the Gods do meane to strike me

To death, with mortall ioy

Pisa. How fares my Mistris?

Imo. Oh get thee from my sight,

Thou gau’st me poyson: dangerous Fellow hence,

Breath not where Princes are

Cym. The tune of Imogen

Pisa. Lady, the Gods throw stones of sulpher on me, if

That box I gaue you, was not thought by mee

A precious thing, I had it from the Queene

Cym. New matter still

Imo. It poyson’d me

Corn. Oh Gods!

I left out one thing which the Queene confest,

Which must approue thee honest. If Pasanio

Haue (said she) giuen his Mistris that Confection

Which I gaue him for Cordiall, she is seru’d,

As I would serue a Rat

Cym. What’s this, Cornelius?

Corn. The Queene (Sir) very oft importun’d me

To temper poysons for her, still pretending

The satisfaction of her knowledge, onely

In killing Creatures vilde, as Cats and Dogges

Of no esteeme. I dreading, that her purpose

Was of more danger, did compound for her

A certaine stuffe, which being tane, would cease

The present powre of life, but in short time,

All Offices of Nature, should againe

Do their due Functions. Haue you tane of it?

Imo. Most like I did, for I was dead

Bel. My Boyes, there was our error

Gui. This is sure Fidele

Imo. Why did you throw your wedded Lady fro[m] you?

Thinke that you are vpon a Rocke, and now

Throw me againe

Post. Hang there like fruite, my soule,

Till the Tree dye

Cym. How now, my Flesh? my Childe?

What, mak’st thou me a dullard in this Act?

Wilt thou not speake to me?

Imo. Your blessing, Sir

Bel. Though you did loue this youth, I blame ye not,

You had a motiue for’t

Cym. My teares that fall

Proue holy-water on thee; Imogen,

Thy Mothers dead

Imo. I am sorry for’t, my Lord

Cym. Oh, she was naught; and long of her it was

That we meet heere so strangely: but her Sonne

Is gone, we know not how, nor where

Pisa. My Lord,

Now feare is from me, Ile speake troth. Lord Cloten

Vpon my Ladies missing, came to me

With his Sword drawne, foam’d at the mouth, and swore

If I discouer’d not which way she was gone,

It was my instant death. By accident,

I had a feigned Letter of my Masters

Then in my pocket, which directed him

To seeke her on the Mountaines neere to Milford,

Where in a frenzie, in my Masters Garments

(Which he inforc’d from me) away he postes

With vnchaste purpose, and with oath to violate

My Ladies honor, what became of him,

I further know not

Gui. Let me end the Story: I slew him there

Cym. Marry, the Gods forefend.

I would not thy good deeds, should from my lips

Plucke a hard sentence: Prythee valiant youth

Deny’t againe

Gui. I haue spoke it, and I did it

Cym. He was a Prince

Gui. A most inciuill one. The wrongs he did mee

Were nothing Prince-like; for he did prouoke me

With Language that would make me spurne the Sea,

If it could so roare to me. I cut off’s head,

And am right glad he is not standing heere

To tell this tale of mine

Cym. I am sorrow for thee:

By thine owne tongue thou art condemn’d, and must

Endure our Law: Thou’rt dead

Imo. That headlesse man I thought had bin my Lord

Cym. Binde the Offender,

And take him from our presence

Bel. Stay, Sir King.

This man is better then the man he slew,

As well descended as thy selfe, and hath

More of thee merited, then a Band of Clotens

Had euer scarre for. Let his Armes alone,

They were not borne for bondage

Cym. Why old Soldier:

Wilt thou vndoo the worth thou art vnpayd for

By tasting of our wrath? How of descent

As good as we?

Arui. In that he spake too farre

Cym. And thou shalt dye for’t Bel. We will dye all three,

But I will proue that two one’s are as good

As I haue giuen out him. My Sonnes, I must

For mine owne part, vnfold a dangerous speech,

Though haply well for you

Arui. Your danger’s ours

Guid. And our good his

Bel. Haue at it then, by leaue

Thou hadd’st (great King) a Subiect, who

Was call’d Belarius

Cym. What of him? He is a banish’d Traitor

Bel. He it is, that hath

Assum’d this age: indeed a banish’d man,

I know not how, a Traitor

Cym. Take him hence,

The whole world shall not saue him

Bel. Not too hot;

First pay me for the Nursing of thy Sonnes,

And let it be confiscate all, so soone

As I haue receyu’d it

Cym. Nursing of my Sonnes?

Bel. I am too blunt, and sawcy: heere’s my knee:

Ere I arise, I will preferre my Sonnes,

Then spare not the old Father. Mighty Sir,

These two young Gentlemen that call me Father,

And thinke they are my Sonnes, are none of mine,

They are the yssue of your Loynes, my Liege,

And blood of your begetting

Cym. How? my Issue

Bel. So sure as you, your Fathers: I (old Morgan)

Am that Belarius, whom you sometime banish’d:

Your pleasure was my neere offence, my punishment

It selfe, and all my Treason that I suffer’d,

Was all the harme I did. These gentle Princes

(For such, and so they are) these twenty yeares

Haue I train’d vp; those Arts they haue, as I

Could put into them. My breeding was (Sir)

As your Highnesse knowes: Their Nurse Euriphile

(Whom for the Theft I wedded) stole these Children

Vpon my Banishment: I moou’d her too’t,

Hauing receyu’d the punishment before

For that which I did then. Beaten for Loyaltie,

Excited me to Treason. Their deere losse,

The more of you ‘twas felt, the more it shap’d

Vnto my end of stealing them. But gracious Sir,

Heere are your Sonnes againe, and I must loose

Two of the sweet’st Companions in the World.

The benediction of these couering Heauens

Fall on their heads like dew, for they are worthie

To in-lay Heauen with Starres

Cym. Thou weep’st, and speak’st:

The Seruice that you three haue done, is more

Vnlike, then this thou tell’st. I lost my Children,

If these be they, I know not how to wish

A payre of worthier Sonnes

Bel. Be pleas’d awhile;

This Gentleman, whom I call Polidore,

Most worthy Prince, as yours, is true Guiderius:

This Gentleman, my Cadwall, Aruiragus.

Your yonger Princely Son, he Sir, was lapt

In a most curious Mantle, wrought by th’ hand

Of his Queene Mother, which for more probation

I can with ease produce

Cym. Guiderius had

Vpon his necke a Mole, a sanguine Starre,

It was a marke of wonder

Bel. This is he,

Who hath vpon him still that naturall stampe:

It was wise Natures end, in the donation

To be his euidence now

Cym. Oh, what am I

A Mother to the byrth of three? Nere Mother

Reioyc’d deliuerance more: Blest, pray you be,

That after this strange starting from your Orbes,

You may reigne in them now: Oh Imogen,

Thou hast lost by this a Kingdome

Imo. No, my Lord:

I haue got two Worlds by’t. Oh my gentle Brothers,

Haue we thus met? Oh neuer say heereafter

But I am truest speaker. You call’d me Brother

When I was but your Sister: I you Brothers,

When we were so indeed

Cym. Did you ere meete?

Arui. I my good Lord

Gui. And at first meeting lou’d,

Continew’d so, vntill we thought he dyed

Corn. By the Queenes Dramme she swallow’d Cym. O rare instinct!

When shall I heare all through? This fierce abridgment,

Hath to it Circumstantiall branches, which

Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liu’d you?

And when came you to serue our Romane Captiue?

How parted with your Brother? How first met them?

Why fled you from the Court? And whether these?

And your three motiues to the Battaile? with

I know not how much more should be demanded,

And all the other by-dependances

From chance to chance? But nor the Time, nor Place

Will serue our long Interrogatories. See,

Posthumus Anchors vpon Imogen;

And she (like harmlesse Lightning) throwes her eye

On him: her Brothers, Me: her Master hitting

Each obiect with a Ioy: the Counterchange

Is seuerally in all. Let’s quit this ground,

And smoake the Temple with our Sacrifices.

Thou art my Brother, so wee’l hold thee euer

Imo. You are my Father too, and did releeue me:

To see this gracious season

Cym. All ore-ioy’d

Saue these in bonds, let them be ioyfull too,

For they shall taste our Comfort

Imo. My good Master, I will yet do you seruice Luc. Happy be you

Cym. The forlorne Souldier, that so Nobly fought

He would haue well becom’d this place, and grac’d

The thankings of a King

Post. I am Sir

The Souldier that did company these three

In poore beseeming: ‘twas a fitment for

The purpose I then follow’d. That I was he,

Speake Iachimo, I had you downe, and might

Haue made you finish

Iach. I am downe againe:

But now my heauie Conscience sinkes my knee,

As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you

Which I so often owe: but your Ring first,

And heere the Bracelet of the truest Princesse

That euer swore the Faith

Post. Kneele not to me:

The powre that I haue on you, is to spare you:

The malice towards you, to forgiue you. Liue

And deale with others better

Cym. Nobly doom’d:

Wee’l learne our Freenesse of a Sonne-in-Law:

Pardon’s the word to all

Arui. You holpe vs Sir,

As you did meane indeed to be our Brother,

Ioy’d are we, that you are

Post. Your Seruant Princes. Good my Lord of Rome

Call forth your Soothsayer: As I slept, me thought

Great Iupiter vpon his Eagle back’d

Appear’d to me, with other sprightly shewes

Of mine owne Kindred. When I wak’d, I found

This Labell on my bosome; whose containing

Is so from sense in hardnesse, that I can

Make no Collection of it. Let him shew

His skill in the construction

Luc. Philarmonus Sooth. Heere, my good Lord

Luc. Read, and declare the meaning.

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.

Thou Leonatus art the Lyons Whelpe,

The fit and apt Construction of thy name

Being Leonatus, doth import so much:

The peece of tender Ayre, thy vertuous Daughter,

Which we call Mollis Aer, and Mollis Aer

We terme it Mulier; which Mulier I diuine

Is this most constant Wife, who euen now

Answering the Letter of the Oracle,

Vnknowne to you vnsought, were clipt about

With this most tender Aire

Cym. This hath some seeming Sooth. The lofty Cedar, Royall Cymbeline

Personates thee: And thy lopt Branches, point

Thy two Sonnes forth: who by Belarius stolne

For many yeares thought dead, are now reuiu’d

To the Maiesticke Cedar ioyn’d; whose Issue

Promises Britaine, Peace and Plenty

Cym. Well,

My Peace we will begin: And Caius Lucius,

Although the Victor, we submit to Caesar,

And to the Romane Empire; promising

To pay our wonted Tribute, from the which

We were disswaded by our wicked Queene,

Whom heauens in Iustice both on her, and hers,

Haue laid most heauy hand

Sooth. The fingers of the Powres aboue, do tune

The harmony of this Peace: the Vision

Which I made knowne to Lucius ere the stroke

Of yet this scarse-cold-Battaile, at this instant

Is full accomplish’d. For the Romaine Eagle

From South to West, on wing soaring aloft

Lessen’d her selfe, and in the Beames o’th’ Sun

So vanish’d; which fore-shew’d our Princely Eagle

Th’ Imperiall Caesar, should againe vnite

His Fauour, with the Radiant Cymbeline,

Which shines heere in the West

Cym. Laud we the Gods,

And let our crooked Smoakes climbe to their Nostrils

From our blest Altars. Publish we this Peace

To all our Subiects. Set we forward: Let

A Roman, and a Brittish Ensigne waue

Friendly together: so through Luds-Towne march,

And in the Temple of great Iupiter

Our Peace wee’l ratifie: Seale it with Feasts.

Set on there: Neuer was a Warre did cease

(Ere bloodie hands were wash’d) with such a Peace.

Exeunt.

THE END