Текст книги "William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition"
Автор книги: William Shakespeare
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1.3 Enter Pirithous, Hippolyta, and Emilia
PIRITHOUS
No further.
HIPPOLYTA
Sir, farewell. Repeat my wishes To our great lord, of whose success I dare not
Make any timorous question; yet I wish him
Excess and overflow of power, an’t might be,
To dure ill-dealing fortune. Speed to him;
Store never hurts good governors.
PIRITHOUS
Though I know His ocean needs not my poor drops, yet they
Must yield their tribute there. (To Emilia) My precious
maid,
Those best affections that the heavens infuse
In their best-tempered pieces keep enthroned
In your dear heart.
EMILIA
Thanks, sir. Remember me To our all-royal brother, for whose speed
The great Bellona I’ll solicit; and
Since in our terrene state petitions are not
Without gifts understood, I’ll offer to her
What I shall be advised she likes. Our hearts
Are in his army, in his tent.
HIPPOLYTA
In’s bosom.
We have been soldiers, and we cannot weep
When our friends don their helms, or put to sea,
Or tell of babes broached on the lance, or women
That have sod their infants in—and after eat them—
The brine they wept at killing ’em: then if
You stay to see of us such spinsters, we
Should hold you here forever.
PIRITHOUS
Peace be to you As I pursue this war, which shall be then
Beyond further requiring.
Exit Pirithous
EMILIA
How his longing Follows his friend! Since his depart, his sports,
Though craving seriousness and skill, passed slightly
His careless execution, where nor gain
Made him regard or loss consider, but
Playing one business in his hand, another
Directing in his head, his mind nurse equal
To these so diff’ring twins. Have you observed him
Since our great lord departed?
HIPPOLYTA
With much labour; And I did love him for’t. They two have cabined
In many as dangerous as poor a corner,
Peril and want contending; they have skiffed
Torrents whose roaring tyranny and power
I’th’ least of these was dreadful, and they have
Fought out together where death’s self was lodged;
Yet fate hath brought them off. Their knot of love,
Tied, weaved, entangled with so true, so long,
And with a finger of so deep a cunning,
May be outworn, never undone. I think
Theseus cannot be umpire to himself,
Cleaving his conscience into twain and doing
Each side like justice, which he loves best.
EMILIA
Doubtless There is a best, and reason has no manners
To say it is not you. I was acquainted
Once with a time when I enjoyed a playfellow;
You were at wars when she the grave enriched,
Who made too proud the bed; took leave o’th’
moon—
Which then looked pale at parting—when our count
Was each eleven.
HIPPOLYTA
’Twas Flavina.
EMILIA
Yes.
You talk of Pirithous’ and Theseus’ love:
Theirs has more ground, is more maturely seasoned,
More buckled with strong judgement, and their needs
The one of th‘other may be said to water
Their intertangled roots of love; but I
And she I sigh and spoke of were things innocent,
Loved for we did, and like the elements,
That know not what, nor why, yet do effect
Rare issues by their operance, our souls
Did so to one another. What she liked
Was then of me approved; what not, condemned—
No more arraignment. The flower that I would pluck
And put between my breasts—O then but beginning
To swell about the blossom—she would long
Till she had such another, and commit it
To the like innocent cradle, where, phoenix-like,
They died in perfume. On my head no toy
But was her pattern. Her affections—pretty,
Though happily her careless wear—I followed
For my most serious decking. Had mine ear
Stol’n some new air, or at adventure hummed one,
From musical coinage, why, it was a note
Whereon her spirits would sojourn—rather dwell on—
And sing it in her slumbers. This rehearsal—
Which, seely innocence wots well, comes in
Like old emportment’s bastard—has this end:
That the true love ’tween maid and maid may be
More than in sex dividual.
HIPPOLYTA
You’re out of breath, And this high-speeded pace is but to say
That you shall never, like the maid Flavina,
Love any that’s called man.
EMILIA I am sure I shall not.
HIPPOLYTA
Now alack, weak sister, I must no more believe thee in this point—
Though in’t I know thou dost believe thyself—
Than I will trust a sickly appetite
That loathes even as it longs. But sure, my sister,
If I were ripe for your persuasion, you
Have said enough to shake me from the arm
Of the all-noble Theseus, for whose fortunes
I will now in and kneel, with great assurance
That we more than his Pirithous possess
The high throne in his heart.
EMILIA
I am not
Against your faith, yet I continue mine.
Exeunt
1.4 Cornetts. A battle struck within. Then a retreat. Flourish. Then enter Theseus, victor. The three Queens meet him and fall on their faces before him. 
FIRST QUEEN (to Theseus)
To thee no star be dark.
SECOND QUEEN (to Theseus) Both heaven and earth
Friend thee for ever.
THIRD QUEEN (to Theseus) All the good that may Be wished upon thy head, I cry ‘Amen’ to’t.
THESEUS
Th’impartial gods, who from the mounted heavens
View us their mortal herd, behold who err
And in their time chastise. Go and find out
The bones of your dead lords and honour them
With treble ceremony: rather than a gap
Should be in their dear rites we would supply’t.
But those we will depute which shall invest
You in your dignities, and even each thing
Our haste does leave imperfect. So adieu,
And heaven’s good eyes look on you.
Exeunt the Queens
What are those?
HERALD
Men of great quality, as may be judged
By their appointment. Some of Thebes have told’s
They are sisters’ children, nephews to the King.
THESEUS
By th’ helm of Mars I saw them in the war,
Like to a pair of lions smeared with prey,
Make lanes in troops aghast. I fixed my note
Constantly on them, for they were a mark
Worth a god’s view. What prisoner was’t that told me
When I enquired their names?
HERALD
Wi’ leave, they’re called Arcite and Palamon.
THESEUS
’Tis right: those, those. They are not dead?
HERALD
Nor in a state of life. Had they been taken
When their last hurts were given, ’twas possible
They might have been recovered. Yet they breathe,
And have the name of men.
THESEUS
Then like men use ‘em. The very lees of such, millions of rates
Exceed the wine of others. All our surgeons
Convent in their behoof; our richest balms,
Rather than niggard, waste. Their lives concern us
Much more than Thebes is worth. Rather than have
’em
Freed of this plight and in their morning state—
Sound and at liberty—I would ’em dead;
But forty-thousandfold we had rather have ’em
Prisoners to us, than death. Bear ‘em speedily
From our kind air, to them unkind, and minister
What man to man may do-for our sake, more,
Since I have known frights, fury, friends’ behests,
Love’s provocations, zeal, a mistress’ task,
Desire of liberty, a fever, madness,
Hath set a mark which nature could not reach to
Without some imposition, sickness in will
O’er-wrestling strength in reason. For our love
And great Apollo’s mercy, all our best
Their best skill tender.—Lead into the city
Where, having bound things scattered, we will post
To Athens fore our army.
Flourish. Exeunt
1.5 Music. Enter the three Queens with the hearses of their lords in a funeral solemnity, with attendants
Song
Urns and odours, bring away,
Vapours, sighs, darken the day;
Our dole more deadly looks than dying.
Balms and gums and heavy cheers,
Sacred vials filled with tears,
And clamours through the wild air flying:
Come all sad and solemn shows,
That are quick-eyed pleasure’s foes.
We convent naught else but woes,
We convent naught else but woes.
THIRD QUEEN
This funeral path brings to your household’s grave—
Joy seize on you again, peace sleep with him.
SECOND QUEEN
And this to yours.
FIRST QUEEN
Yours this way. Heavens lend A thousand differing ways to one sure end.
THIRD QUEEN
This world’s a city full of straying streets,
And death’s the market-place where each one meets.
Exeunt severally
2.1 Enter the Jailer and the Wooer
JAILER I may depart with little, while I live; something I may cast to you, not much. Alas, the prison I keep, though it be for great ones, yet they seldom come; before one salmon you shall take a number of minnows. I am given out to be better lined than it can appear to me report is a true speaker. I would I were really that I am delivered to be. Marry, what I have—be it what it will—I will assure upon my daughter at the day of my death.
WOOER Sir, I demand no more than your own offer, and I will estate your daughter in what I have promised.
JAILER Well, we will talk more of this when the solemnity is past. But have you a full promise of her?
Enter the Jailer’s Daughter with rushes
When that shall be seen, I tender my consent.
WOOER I have, sir. Here she comes.
JAILER (to Daughter) Your friend and I have chanced to name you here, upon the old business—but no more of that now. So soon as the court hurry is over we will have an end of it. I’th’ mean time, look tenderly to the two prisoners. I can tell you they are princes.
JAILER’S DAUGHTER These strewings are for their chamber. ’Tis pity they are in prison, and ’twere pity they should be out. I do think they have patience to make any adversity ashamed; the prison itself is proud of ’em, and they have all the world in their chamber.
JAILER They are famed to be a pair of absolute men.
JAILER’S DAUGHTER By my troth, I think fame but stammers ’em—they stand a grece above the reach of report.
JAILER I heard them reported in the battle to be the only doers.
JAILER’S DAUGHTER Nay, most likely, for they are noble sufferers. I marvel how they would have looked had they been victors, that with such a constant nobility enforce a freedom out of bondage, making misery their mirth, and affliction a toy to jest at.
JAILER Do they so?
JAILER’S DAUGHTER It seems to me they have no more sense of their captivity than I of ruling Athens. They eat well, look merrily, discourse of many things, but nothing of their own restraint and disasters. Yet sometime a divided sigh—martyred as ’twere i’th’ deliverance—will break from one of them, when the other presently gives it so sweet a rebuke that I could wish myself a sigh to be so chid, or at least a sigher to be comforted.
WOOER I never saw ’em.
JAILER The Duke himself came privately in the night,
Palamon and Arcite appear ⌈at a window⌉ above
and so did they. What the reason of it is I know not. Look, yonder they are. That’s Arcite looks out.
JAILER’S DAUGHTER No, sir, no—that’s Palamon. Arcite is the lower of the twain—(pointing at Arcite) you may perceive a part of him.
JAILER Go to, leave your pointing. They would not make us their object. Out of their sight.
JAILER’S DAUGHTER It is a holiday to look on them. Lord, the difference of men!
Exeunt
2.2 Enter Palamon and Arcite in prison, ⌈in shackles, above⌉
PALAMON
How do you, noble cousin?
ARCITE How do you, sir?
PALAMON
Why, strong enough to laugh at misery
And bear the chance of war. Yet we are prisoners,
I fear, for ever, cousin.
ARCITE
I believe it, And to that destiny have patiently
Laid up my hour to come.
PALAMON
O, cousin Arcite, Where is Thebes now? Where is our noble country?
Where are our friends and kindreds? Never more
Must we behold those comforts, never see
The hardy youths strive for the games of honour,
Hung with the painted favours of their ladies,
Like tall ships under sail; then start amongst ’em
And, as an east wind, leave ’em all behind us,
Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite,
Even in the wagging of a wanton leg,
Outstripped the people’s praises, won the garlands
Ere they have time to wish ‘em ours. O never
Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour,
Our arms again and feel our fiery horses
Like proud seas under us. Our good swords, now—
Better the red-eyed god of war ne’er wore—
Ravished our sides, like age must run to rust
And deck the temples of those gods that hate us.
These hands shall never draw ’em out like lightning
To blast whole armies more.
ARCITE
No, Palamon, Those hopes are prisoners with us. Here we are,
And here the graces of our youths must wither,
Like a too-timely spring. Here age must find us
And, which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried—
The sweet embraces of a loving wife
Loaden with kisses, armed with thousand Cupids,
Shall never clasp our necks; no issue know us;
No figures of ourselves shall we e’er see
To glad our age, and, like young eagles, teach ’em
Boldly to gaze against bright arms and say,
‘Remember what your fathers were, and conquer.’
The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments,
And in their songs curse ever-blinded fortune,
Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done
To youth and nature. This is all our world.
We shall know nothing here but one another,
Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes.
The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it;
Summer shall come, and with her all delights,
But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still.
PALAMON
’Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds
That shook the aged forest with their echoes,
No more now must we holler; no more shake
Our pointed javelins whilst the angry swine
Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages,
Struck with our well-steeled darts. All valiant uses—
The food and nourishment of noble minds—
In us two here shall perish; we shall die—
Which is the curse of honour—lastly,
Children of grief and ignorance.
ARCITE
Yet, cousin, Even from the bottom of these miseries,
From all that fortune can inflict upon us,
I see two comforts rising—two mere blessings,
If the gods please, to hold here a brave patience
And the enjoying of our griefs together.
Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish
If I think this our prison.
PALAMON
Certainly ’Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes
Were twined together. ’Tis most true, two souls
Put in two noble bodies, let ’em suffer
The gall of hazard, so they grow together,
Will never sink; they must not, say they could.
A willing man dies sleeping and all’s done.
ARCITE
Shall we make worthy uses of this place
That all men hate so much?
PALAMON How, gentle cousin?
ARCITE
Let’s think this prison holy sanctuary,
To keep us from corruption of worse men.
We are young, and yet desire the ways of honour
That liberty and common conversation,
The poison of pure spirits, might, like women,
Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing
Can be, but our imaginations
May make it ours? And here being thus together,
We are an endless mine to one another:
We are one another’s wife, ever begetting
New births of love; we are father, friends,
acquaintance;
We are in one another, families—
I am your heir, and you are mine; this place
Is our inheritance: no hard oppressor
Dare take this from us. Here, with a little patience,
We shall live long and loving. No surfeits seek us—
The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas
Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty
A wife might part us lawfully, or business;
Quarrels consume us; envy of ill men
Crave our acquaintance. I might sicken, cousin,
Where you should never know it, and so perish
Without your noble hand to close mine eyes,
Or prayers to the gods. A thousand chances,
Were we from hence, would sever us.
PALAMON
You have made me—I thank you, cousin Arcite—almost wanton
With my captivity. What a misery
It is to live abroad, and everywhere!
’Tis like a beast, methinks. I find the court here;
I am sure, a more content; and all those pleasures
That woo the wills of men to vanity
I see through now, and am sufficient
To tell the world ’tis but a gaudy shadow,
That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him.
What had we been, old in the court of Creon,
Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance
The virtues of the great ones? Cousin Arcite,
Had not the loving gods found this place for us,
We had died as they do, ill old men, unwept,
And had their epitaphs, the people’s curses.
Shall I say more?
ARCITE I would hear you still.
PALAMON
Ye shall. Is there record of any two that loved
Better than we do, Arcite?
ARCITE Sure there cannot.
PALAMON
I do not think it possible our friendship
Should ever leave us.
ARCITE Till our deaths it cannot,
Enter Emilia and her Woman ⌈below⌉. Palamon sees Emilia and is silent
And after death our spirits shall be led
To those that love eternally. Speak on, sir.
EMILIA (to her Woman)
This garden has a world of pleasure in’t.
What flower is this?
WOMAN ’Tis called narcissus, madam.
EMILIA
That was a fair boy, certain, but a fool
To love himself. Were there not maids enough?
ARCITE (to Palamon)
Pray forward.
PALAMON Yes.
EMILIA (to her Woman) Or were they all hard-hearted?
WOMAN
They could not be to one so fair.
EMILIA Thou wouldst not.
WOMAN
I think I should not, madam.
EMILIA
That’s a good wench—But take heed to your kindness, though.
WOMAN Why, madam?
EMILIA
Men are mad things.
ARCITE (to Palamon) Will ye go forward, cousin?
EMILIA (to her Woman)
Canst not thou work such flowers in silk, wench?
WOMAN Yes.
EMILIA
I’ll have a gown full of ’em, and of these.
This is a pretty colour—will’t not do
Rarely upon a skirt, wench?
WOMAN Dainty, madam.
ARCITE (to Palamon)
Cousin, cousin, how do you, sir? Why, Palamon!
PALAMON
Never till now was I in prison, Arcite.
ARCITE
Why, what’s the matter, man?
PALAMON Behold and wonder!
Arcite sees Emilia
By heaven, she is a goddess!
ARCITE Ha!
PALAMON
Do reverence.
She is a goddess, Arcite.
EMILIA (to her Woman)
Of all flowers
Methinks a rose is best.
WOMAN Why, gentle madam?
EMILIA
It is the very emblem of a maid—
For when the west wind courts her gently,
How modestly she blows, and paints the sun
With her chaste blushes! When the north comes near
her,
Rude and impatient, then, like chastity,
She locks her beauties in her bud again,
And leaves him to base briers.
WOMAN
Yet, good madam, Sometimes her modesty will blow so far
She falls for’t—a maid,
If she have any honour, would be loath
To take example by her.
EMILIA Thou art wanton.
ARCITE (to Palamon)
She is wondrous fair.
PALAMON She is all the beauty extant.
EMILIA (to her Woman)
The sun grows high—let’s walk in. Keep these flowers.
We’ll see how close art can come near their colours.
I am wondrous merry-hearted—I could laugh now.
WOMAN
I could lie down, I am sure.
EMILIA And take one with you?
WOMAN
That’s as we bargain, madam.
EMILIA Well, agree then.
Exeunt Emilia and her Woman
PALAMON
What think you of this beauty?
ARCITE ’Tis a rare one.
PALAMON
Is’t but a rare one?
ARCITE Yes, a matchless beauty.
PALAMON
Might not a man well lose himself and love her?
ARCITE
I cannot tell what you have done; I have,
Beshrew mine eyes for’t. Now I feel my shackles.
PALAMON You love her then?
ARCITE Who would not?
PALAMON And desire her?
ARCITE Before my liberty.
PALAMON
I saw her first.
ARCITE
That’s nothing.
PALAMON
But it shall be.
ARCITE
I saw her too.
PALAMON
Yes, but you must not love her.
ARCITE
I will not, as you do, to worship her
As she is heavenly and a blessèd goddess!
I love her as a woman, to enjoy her—
So both may love.
PALAMON
You shall not love at all.
ARCITE
Not love at all—who shall deny me?
PALAMON
I that first saw her, I that took possession
First with mine eye of all those beauties
In her revealed to mankind. If thou lov’st her,
Or entertain’st a hope to blast my wishes,
Thou art a traitor, Arcite, and a fellow
False as thy title to her. Friendship, blood,
And all the ties between us I disclaim,
If thou once think upon her.
ARCITE
Yes, I love her—And if the lives of all my name lay on it,
I must do so. I love her with my soul—
If that will lose ye, farewell, Palamon!
I say again,
I love her, and in loving her maintain
I am as worthy and as free a lover,
And have as just a title to her beauty,
As any Palamon, or any living
That is a man’s son.
PALAMON
Have I called thee friend?
ARCITE
Yes, and have found me so. Why are you moved
thus?
Let me deal coldly with you. Am not I
Part of your blood, part of your soul? You have
told me
That I was Palamon and you were Arcite.
PALAMON Yes.
ARCITE
Am not I liable to those affections,
Those joys, griefs, angers, fears, my friend shall
suffer?
PALAMON
Ye may be.
ARCITE
Why then would you deal so cunningly, So strangely, so unlike a noble kinsman,
To love alone? Speak truly. Do you think me
Unworthy of her sight?
PALAMON
No, but unjust If thou pursue that sight.
ARCITE
Because another First sees the enemy, shall I stand still,
And let mine honour down, and never charge?
PALAMON
Yes, if he be but one.
ARCITE
But say that one
Had rather combat me?
PALAMON
Let that one say so, And use thy freedom; else, if thou pursuest her,
Be as that cursed man that hates his country,
A branded villain.
ARCITE
You are mad.
PALAMON
I must be. Till thou art worthy, Arcite, it concerns me;
And in this madness if I hazard thee
And take thy life, I deal but truly.
ARCITE
Fie, sir. You play the child extremely. I will love her,
I must, I ought to do so, and I dare—
And all this justly.
PALAMON
O, that now, that now Thy false self and thy friend had but this fortune—
To be one hour at liberty and grasp
Our good swords in our hands! I would quickly teach
thee
What ’twere to filch affection from another.
Thou art baser in it than a cutpurse.
Put but thy head out of this window more
And, as I have a soul, I’ll nail thy life to’t.
ARCITE
Thou dar’st not, fool; thou canst not; thou art feeble.
Put my head out? I’ll throw my body out
And leap the garden when I see her next,
Enter the Jailer ⌈above⌉
And pitch between her arms to anger thee.
PALAMON
No more—the keeper’s coming. I shall live
To knock thy brains out with my shackles.
ARCITE Do.
JAILER
By your leave, gentlemen.
PALAMON Now, honest keeper?
JAILER
Lord Arcite, you must presently to th’ Duke.
The cause I know not yet.
ARCITE I am ready, keeper.
JAILER
Prince Palamon, I must a while bereave you
Of your fair cousin’s company.
Exeunt Arcite and the Jailer
PALAMON
And me, too, Even when you please, of life. Why is he sent for?
It may be he shall marry her—he’s goodly,
And like enough the Duke hath taken notice
Both of his blood and body. But his falsehood!
Why should a friend be treacherous? If that
Get him a wife so noble and so fair,
Let honest men ne’er love again. Once more
I would but see this fair one. Blessèd garden,
And fruit and flowers more blessed, that still blossom
As her bright eyes shine on ye! Would I were,
For all the fortune of my life hereafter,
Yon little tree, yon blooming apricot—
How I would spread and fling my wanton arms
In at her window! I would bring her fruit
Fit for the gods to feed on; youth and pleasure
Still as she tasted should be doubled on her;
And if she be not heavenly, I would make her
So near the gods in nature they should fear her—
Enter the Jailer ⌈bove⌉
And then I am sure she would love me. How now,
keeper,
Where’s Arcite?
JAILER
Banished—Prince Pirithous Obtained his liberty; but never more,
Upon his oath and life, must he set foot
Upon this kingdom.
PALAMON ⌈aside⌉
He’s a blessed man. He shall see Thebes again, and call to arms
The bold young men that, when he bids ’em charge,
Fall on like fire. Arcite shall have a fortune,
If he dare make himself a worthy lover,
Yet in the field to strike a battle for her;
And if he lose her then, he’s a cold coward.
How bravely may he bear himself to win her
If he be noble Arcite; thousand ways!
Were I at liberty I would do things
Of such a virtuous greatness that this lady,
This blushing virgin, should take manhood to her
And seek to ravish me.
JAILER My lord, for you
I have this charge to—
PALAMON To discharge my life.
JAILER
No, but from this place to remove your lordship—
The windows are too open.
PALAMON
Devils take ’em That are so envious to me—prithee kill me.
JAILER
And hang for’t afterward?
PALAMON
By this good light, Had I as word I would kill thee.
JAILER Why, my lord?
PALAMON
Thou bring’st such pelting scurvy news continually,
Thou art not worthy life. I will not go.
JAILER
Indeed you must, my lord.
PALAMON May I see the garden?
JAILER
No.
PALAMON Then I am resolved—I will not go.
JAILER
I must constrain you, then; and for you are dangerous,
I’ll clap more irons on you.
PALAMON
Do, good keeper. I’ll shake ’em so ye shall not sleep:
I’ll make ye a new morris. Must I go?
JAILER
There is no remedy.
PALAMON
Farewell, kind window. May rude wind never hurt thee. O, my lady,
If ever thou hast felt what sorrow was,
Dream how I suffer. Come, now bury me.
Exeunt Palamon and the Jailer
