« 上一页继续 »
Upon the number'd beach“; and can we not
Partition make with spectacles so precious
'Twixt fair and foul ?
What makes your admiration?
Tach. It cannot be i' the eye; for apes and monkeys,
”Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way, and
Contemn with mows the other: nor i’ the judgment;
For idiots, in this case of favour, would
Be wisely definite: nor i’ the appetite;
Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos’d,
Should make desire vomit emptiness,
Not so allur’d to feed.
Imo. What is the matter, trow?
The cloyed will,
(That satiate yet unsatisfied desire,
That tub both fillid and running) ravening first
The lamb, longs after for the garbage.
What, dear sir, Thus raps you? Are you well ? Iach. Thanks, madam, well. Beseech you, sir, desire
[To PISANIO. My man's abode where I did leave him; he Is strange and peevish. Pis.
I was going, sir, To give him welcome.
[Exit PISANIO. Imo. Continues well my lord ? His health, 'beseech
Iach. Well, madam.
Imo. Is he dispos’d to mirth? I hope, he is.
Iach. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there
So merry and so gamesome : he is callid
The Briton reveller.
+ Upon the NUMBER'D BEACH ;] The “number'd beach” must be taken, as Johnson observes, for numerous beach ; and “twinned stones” of the preceding line refers to the likeness, as of twins, between the stones on the beach. Coleridge (Lit. Rem, vol. ii. p. 127) would read, with Farmer, umber'd for “ number'd ;” but, if any change were required, we should be inclined to prefer that of Theobald, “th' unnumber'd beach.
When he was here,
He did incline to sadness; and oft-times
Not knowing why.
I never saw him sad.
There is a Frenchman his companion, one,
An eminent monsieur, that, it seems, much loves
A Gallian girl at home; he furnaces
The thick sighs from him, whiles the jolly Briton
(Your lord, I mean) laughs from's free lungs, cries, “O!
Can my sides hold, to think, that man,—who knows
By history, report, or his own proof,
What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose
But must be,—will his free hours languish
For assur'd bondage ?”
Will my lord say so? Iach. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laugh
ter: It is a recreation to be by, And hear him mock the Frenchman; but, heavens
know, Some men are much to blame. Imo.
Not he, I hope.
Iach. Not he; but yet heaven's bounty towards him
Be us’d more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much ;
In you,—which I account his beyond all talents,
Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound
To pity too.
Imo. What do you pity, sir?
Iach. Two creatures, heartily.
Am I one, sir?
You look on me: what wreck discern you in me,
Deserves your pity ?
To hide me from the radiant sun, and solace
I'the dungeon by a snuff?
I pray you, sir,
Deliver with more openness your answers
To my demands. Why do you pity me?
Tach. That others do,
I was about to say, enjoy your—But
It is an office of the gods to venge it,
Not mine to speak on't.
You do seem to know
Something of me, or what concerns me: pray you,
(Since doubting things go ill, often hurts more
Than to be sure they do; for certainties
Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing,
The remedy then born) discover to me
What both you spur and stop.
Had I this cheek
To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,
Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soul
To the oath of loyalty; this object, which
Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,
Fixing it only here"; should I (damn'd then)
Slaver with lips as common as the stairs
That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands
Made hard with hourly falsehood (falsehood as
With labour) then by peeping in an eye,
Base and illustrous as the smoky light
That's fed with stinking tallow, it were fit,
That all the plagues of hell should at one time
Encounter such revolt.
My lord, I fear,
Has forgot Britain.
And himself. Not I,
Inclin’d to this intelligence, pronounce
The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces
That, from my mutest conscience, to my tongue,
Charms this report out.
Let me hear no more.
Iach. O dearest soul ! your cause doth strike my
With pity, that doth make me sick. A lady
So fair, and fasten'd to an empery,
Would make the great'st king double, to be partnerid
With tomboys, hir'd with that self exhibition
Which your own coffers yield! with diseas'd ventures,
That play with all infirmities for gold
Which rottenness can lend nature ! such boild stuff,
As well might poison poison! Be reveng'd,
Or she that bore you was no queen, and you
Recoil from your great stock.
How should I be reveng'd? If this be true,
(As I have such a heart, that both mine ears
Must not in haste abuse) if it be true,
How should I be reveng'd?
Should he make me
Live, like Diana's priest, betwixt cold sheets,
Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps,
In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it.
I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure,
More noble than that runagate to your bed,
And will continue fast to your affection,
Still close, as sure.
What ho, Pisanio!
Iach. Let me my service tender on your lips.
Imo. Away I do condemn mine ears, that have
So long attended thee.--If thou wert honourable,
Thou would’st have told this tale for virtue, not
For such an end thou seek'st, as base, as strange.
Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far
From thy report, as thou from honour; and
Solicit'st here a lady, that disdains
Thee and the devil alike.- What ho, Pisanio!-
The king my father shall be made acquainted
Of thy assault: if he shall think it fit,
A saucy stranger, in his court, to mart
As in a Romish stew, and to expound
His beastly mind to us, he hath a court
He little cares for, and a daughter whom
He not respects at all.—What ho, Pisanio !
Tach. O happy Leonatus! I may say;
The credit, that thy lady hath of thee,
Deserves thy trust; and thy most perfect goodness
Her assur'd credit.-Blessed live you long!
A lady to the worthiest sir, that ever
Country call’d his; and you his mistress, only
For the most worthiest fit. Give me your pardon.
I have spoke this, to know if your affiance
Were deeply rooted ; and shall make your lord,
That which he is, new o’er: and he is one
The truest manner'd; such a holy witch,
That he enchants societies unto him?:
Half all men's hearts are his.
You make amends. Tach. He sits 'mongst men, like a descended god®: He hath a kind of honour sets him off, More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty princess, that I have adventur'd To try your taking of a false report; which hath Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment In the election of a sir so rare, Which, you know, cannot err. The love I bear him Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon.