CYMBELINE - Уильям Шекспир

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notice that I am in Cambria at Milford-Hauen: what your

       owne Loue, will out of this aduise you, follow. So he wishes you

       all happinesse, that remaines loyall to his Vow, and your

       encreasing

       in Loue. Leonatus Posthumus.

       Oh for a Horse with wings: Hear’st thou Pisanio?

       He is at Milford-Hauen: Read, and tell me

       How farre ‘tis thither. If one of meane affaires

       May plod it in a weeke, why may not I

       Glide thither in a day? Then true Pisanio,

       Who long’st like me, to see thy Lord; who long’st

       (Oh let me bate) but not like me: yet long’st

       But in a fainter kinde. Oh not like me:

       For mine’s beyond, beyond: say, and speake thicke

       (Loues Counsailor should fill the bores of hearing,

       To’th’ smothering of the Sense) how farre it is

       To this same blessed Milford. And by’th’ way

       Tell me how Wales was made so happy, as

       T’ inherite such a Hauen. But first of all,

       How we may steale from hence: and for the gap

       That we shall make in Time, from our hence-going,

       And our returne, to excuse: but first, how get hence.

       Why should excuse be borne or ere begot?

       Weele talke of that heereafter. Prythee speake,

       How many store of Miles may we well rid

       Twixt houre, and houre?

       Pis. One score ‘twixt Sun, and Sun,

       Madam’s enough for you: and too much too

       Imo. Why, one that rode to’s Execution Man,

       Could neuer go so slow: I haue heard of Riding wagers,

       Where Horses haue bin nimbler then the Sands

       That run i’th’ Clocks behalfe. But this is Foolrie,

       Go, bid my Woman faigne a Sicknesse, say

       She’le home to her Father; and prouide me presently

       A Riding Suit: No costlier then would fit

       A Franklins Huswife

       Pisa. Madam, you’re best consider Imo. I see before me (Man) nor heere, nor heere;

       Nor what ensues but haue a Fog in them

       That I cannot looke through. Away, I prythee,

       Do as I bid thee: There’s no more to say:

       Accessible is none but Milford way.

       Exeunt.

      SCENE III.

       Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus.

       Bel. A goodly day, not to keepe house with such,

       Whose Roofe’s as lowe as ours: Sleepe Boyes, this gate

       Instructs you how t’ adore the Heauens; and bowes you

       To a mornings holy office. The Gates of Monarches

       Are Arch’d so high, that Giants may iet through

       And keepe their impious Turbonds on, without

       Good morrow to the Sun. Haile thou faire Heauen,

       We house i’th’ Rocke, yet vse thee not so hardly

       As prouder liuers do

       Guid. Haile Heauen

       Aruir. Haile Heauen

       Bela. Now for our Mountaine sport, vp to yond hill

       Your legges are yong: Ile tread these Flats. Consider,

       When you aboue perceiue me like a Crow,

       That it is Place, which lessen’s, and sets off,

       And you may then reuolue what Tales, I haue told you,

       Of Courts, of Princes; of the Tricks in Warre.

       This Seruice, is not Seruice; so being done,

       But being so allowed. To apprehend thus,

       Drawes vs a profit from all things we see:

       And often to our comfort, shall we finde

       The sharded-Beetle, in a safer hold

       Then is the full-wing’d Eagle. Oh this life,

       Is Nobler, then attending for a checke:

       Richer, then doing nothing for a Babe:

       Prouder, then rustling in vnpayd-for Silke:

       Such gaine the Cap of him, that makes him fine,

       Yet keepes his Booke vncros’d: no life to ours

       Gui. Out of your proofe you speak: we poore vnfledg’d

       Haue neuer wing’d from view o’th’ nest; nor knowes not

       What Ayre’s from home. Hap’ly this life is best,

       (If quiet life be best) sweeter to you

       That haue a sharper knowne. Well corresponding

       With your stiffe Age; but vnto vs, it is

       A Cell of Ignorance: trauailing a bed,

       A Prison, or a Debtor, that not dares

       To stride a limit

       Arui. What should we speake of

       When we are old as you? When we shall heare

       The Raine and winde beate darke December? How

       In this our pinching Caue, shall we discourse

       The freezing houres away? We haue seene nothing:

       We are beastly; subtle as the Fox for prey,

       Like warlike as the Wolfe, for what we eate:

       Our Valour is to chace what flyes: Our Cage

       We make a Quire, as doth the prison’d Bird,

       And sing our Bondage freely

       Bel. How you speake.

       Did you but know the Citties Vsuries,

       And felt them knowingly: the Art o’th’ Court,

       As hard to leaue, as keepe: whose top to climbe

       Is certaine falling: or so slipp’ry, that

       The feare’s as bad as falling. The toyle o’th’ Warre,

       A paine that onely seemes to seeke out danger

       I’th’ name of Fame, and Honor, which dyes i’th’ search,

       And hath as oft a sland’rous Epitaph,

       As Record of faire Act. Nay, many times

       Doth ill deserue, by doing well: what’s worse

       Must curt’sie at the Censure. Oh Boyes, this Storie

       The World may reade in me: My bodie’s mark’d

       With Roman Swords; and my report, was once

       First, with the best of Note. Cymbeline lou’d me,

       And when a Souldier was the Theame, my name

       Was not farre off: then was I as a Tree

       Whose boughes did bend with fruit. But in one night,

       A Storme, or Robbery (call it what you will)

       Shooke downe my mellow hangings: nay my Leaues,

       And left me bare to weather

       Gui. Vncertaine fauour Bel. My fault

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