The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated)

by William Shakespeare

  The world may read in me; my body's mark'd

  With Roman swords, and my report was once

  first with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me;

  And when a soldier was the theme, my name

  Was not far off. Then was I as a tree

  Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night

  A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,

  Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,

  And left me bare to weather.

  The things you say!

  If you only knew the excesses of the city,

  and had felt their effects - the politics of the court,

  which is as hard to leave as to stay, where reaching the top

  means you're certain to fall, or anyway it's so slippery

  that the worry is as bad as falling; the toils of war,

  a pain that only seems to look for danger

  in the name of fame and honour, which is lost in the search,

  and where often one gets a bad reputation

  for doing good things; many times

  one's treated badly for doing good; what's even worse

  is one has to accept the criticism meekly.Oh boys,

  the world can see me as an example of this; my body's scarred

  with Roman swords, and I was once the most talked about

  and most approved of.Cymbeline loved me;

  whenever soldiers were spoken of, my name was

  never far from the conversation.Then I was like a tree

  whose branches were bent down with fruit; but in one night

  a storm, or robbery, whatever you want to call it,

  shook down my fruit, even my leaves,

  and left me exposed to the weather.

  GUIDERIUS.

  Uncertain favour!

  How changeable favour is!

  BELARIUS.

  My fault being nothing- as I have told you oft-

  But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd

  Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline

  I was confederate with the Romans. So

  Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years

  This rock and these demesnes have been my world,

  Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid

  More pious debts to heaven than in all

  The fore-end of my time. But up to th' mountains!

  This is not hunters' language. He that strikes

  The venison first shall be the lord o' th' feast;

  To him the other two shall minister;

  And we will fear no poison, which attends

  In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys.

  Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS

  How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!

  These boys know little they are sons to th' King,

  Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.

  They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly

  I' th' cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit

  The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them

  In simple and low things to prince it much

  Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,

  The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who

  The King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove!

  When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell

  The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out

  Into my story; say 'Thus mine enemy fell,

  And thus I set my foot on's neck'; even then

  The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,

  Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture

  That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,

  Once Arviragus, in as like a figure

  Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more

  His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd!

  O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows

  Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon,

  At three and two years old, I stole these babes,

  Thinking to bar thee of succession as

  Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile,

  Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother,

  And every day do honour to her grave.

  Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,

  They take for natural father. The game is up.

  Exit

  I had done nothing wrong - as I've often told you -

  but two villains, whose false oaths were believed

  more than my perfect honesty, swore to Cymbeline

  that I was in league with the Romans.So

  I was banished, and for the last twenty years

  this cave and its surroundings have been my world,

  where I have lived in honest freedom, and given

  more genuine worship to heaven than I did in all

  the time leading up to this.But up to the mountains!

  This is not the way for hunters to talk.The one who gets

  the first deer shall be lord of the feast;

  the other two will serve him,

  and we won't worry about being poisoned, which we would

  if we were in a higher situation.I'll meet you in the valleys.

  How difficult it is to hide away true nature!

  Those boys have no idea that they are the King's sons,

  and Cymbeline has no idea that they are alive.

  They think they are mine; and though they have been brought up in such a lowly way,

  in the cave where they now crouch, their thoughts reach

  to the roofs of palaces, and their nature prompts them

  to act like princes even in simple low things,

  far above the way others behave.This Polydore,

  the heir of Cymbeline and of Britain, whom

  his father the King called Guiderius - by Jove!

  When I sit on my three legged stool and tell them

  of the warlike things I have done, he immerses himself

  in my story;if I say, "This is how my enemy fell,

  and this is how I put my foot on his neck," then

  the princely blood flushes his cheeks, he sweats,

  strains his young nerves, and puts himself in a position

  that mimics my words.The younger brother, Cadwal,

  who was once called Arviragus, in the same way

  lives out what I say, and shows that he's

  imagining much more.Listen, the game has been flushed out!

  Oh Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience know

  that you exiled me unjustly!So, when they

  were two and three years old, I stole these babies,

  planning to stop your succession in revenge

  for you taking my lands.Euriphile,

  you nursed them; they thought you were their mother,

  and every day they pay their respects at your grave.

  Me, Belarius, who calls myself Morgan,

  they think is their real father.The game is running.

  Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN

  IMOGEN.

  Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place

  Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so

  To see me first as I have now - Pisanio! Man!

  Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind

  That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh

  From th' inward of thee? One but painted thus

  Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd

  Beyond self-explication. Put thyself

  Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness

  Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter?

  Why tender'st thou that paper to me with

  A look untender! If't be summer news,

  Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st

  But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand?

  That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him,

  And he's at some hard point. Sp
eak, man; thy tongue

  May take off some extremity, which to read

  Would be even mortal to me.

  You told me, when we left the horses, that the place

  was nearby.My mother never so longed to see me

  arrive as I now - Pisanio! Man!

  Where is Posthumus?What's on your mind

  that makes you stare like that?Why do you give

  those great heartfelt sighs?Just a picture of you

  would be seen as a person confused

  beyond explanation.Stop

  looking so worried, or panic

  will start to overcome my calm senses.What's the matter?

  Why are you holding that paper out to me with

  such a harsh look?If it's good news,

  give us a smile, if it's bad

  you can keep that face.My husband's handwriting?

  That poisonous Italy has tricked him,

  and he's in some kind of trouble.Speak, man; if I hear it

  it might take the edge off the horror of it, when to read it

  might kill me.

  PISANIO.

  Please you read,

  And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing

  The most disdain'd of fortune.

  Please, you read it,

  and you will see that I, wretched man, am the

  unluckiest man alive.

  IMOGEN.

  [Reads] 'Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play'd the

  strumpet in

  my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak

  not

  out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief

  and as

  certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must

  act

  for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers.

  Let

  thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee

  opportunity

  at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where,

  if

  thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou

  art

  the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.'

  'Your mistress, Pisanio, has acted like a tart in my bed,

  of which I've had proof which has stabbed me to the heart.

  I'm not talking about weak guesses, but proof as strong as my grief

  and as certain as the fact that I'll get revenge.Your part, Pisanio,

  if your loyalty hasn't been corrupted like hers, is to take

  that revenge, kill her yourself.I shall set up your chance

  at Milford Haven; I've given her a letter which will get her there;

  if you don't do this, and give me proof of it, I'll know

  that you are a pimp in her dishonour, and disloyal to me.'

  PISANIO.

  What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper

  Hath cut her throat already. No, 'tis slander,

  Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue

  Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath

  Rides on the posting winds and doth belie

  All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states,

  Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave,

  This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?

  Is there any need to take my sword out?The letter

  has already cut her throat out.No, it's slander,

  which is sharper than a sword, whose tongue

  is more poisonous than all the snakes of Eygpt, whose breath

  rides on the swift winds and tells lies

  in all corners of the world.Kings, queens and states,

  girls, old women, even the secrets of the grave,

  are bitten by the viper of slander.What are you thinking, madam?

  IMOGEN.

  False to his bed? What is it to be false?

  To lie in watch there, and to think on him?

  To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature,

  To break it with a fearful dream of him,

  And cry myself awake? That's false to's bed,

  Is it?

  False in his bed?What does it mean, false?

  Lying awake in there, thinking of him?

  To weep away the hours?If nature breaks sleep,

  giving me a terrible dream that he's in trouble,

  and cry myself awake?That's being false in his bed,

  is it?

  PISANIO.

  Alas, good lady!

  Alas, good lady!

  IMOGEN.

  I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo,

  Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;

  Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks,

  Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy,

  Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him.

  Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion,

  And for I am richer than to hang by th' walls

  I must be ripp'd. To pieces with me! O,

  Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming,

  By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought

  Put on for villainy; not born where't grows,

  But worn a bait for ladies.

  Me false!Do you really believe that!Iachimo,

  you accused him of being unfaithful;

  then you looked like a villain; now I look

  at you in a different light.Some made up

  Italian tart has led him astray.

  He's had enough of me, like clothes that have gone out of fashion,

  and as I'm too good to just be hung up in a cupboard

  I must be ripped to pieces.Rip me up!Oh,

  the promises of men betray women!Everything that looked good

  now looks, due to your betrayal, oh husband,

  as if it was faked for evil ends; it wasn't natural,

  but put on to trap ladies.

  PISANIO.

  Good madam, hear me.

  Good madam, listen to me.

  IMOGEN.

  True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas,

  Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon's weeping

  Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity

  From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus,

  Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men:

  Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur'd

  From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest;

  Do thou thy master's bidding; when thou seest him,

  A little witness my obedience. Look!

  I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit

  The innocent mansion of my love, my heart.

  Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief;

  Thy master is not there, who was indeed

  The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike.

  Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause,

  But now thou seem'st a coward.

  True and honest men in Aeneas' time were thought

  to be false like him, and Sinon's weeping

  attracted many good people's sympathy, diverting it

  from those who deserved it.In the same way you, Posthumus,

  will spoil the reputation of all decent men:

  good and brave men will be thought false perjurers

  due to your great failings.Come, fellow, be faithful;

  Follow your master's orders; when you see him,

  you can tell him how obedient I was.Look!

  I'm taking out your sword myself; take it, and destroy

  that innocent house of love, my heart.

  Don't be afraid, there's nothing in it but grief;

  your master is not there, who used to be

  the best thing in it.Do as he said: strike.

  You may be brave in other situations,

  but now you seem like a coward.

  PISANIO.

  Hence, vile instrument!

  Thou shalt not damn my ha
nd.

  Get away, horrible tool!

  You will not curse my hand.

  IMOGEN.

  Why, I must die;

  And if I do not by thy hand, thou art

  No servant of thy master's. Against self-slaughter

  There is a prohibition so divine

  That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my heart-

  Something's afore't. Soft, soft! we'll no defence!-

  Obedient as the scabbard. What is here?

  The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus

  All turn'd to heresy? Away, away,

  Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more

  Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools

  Believe false teachers; though those that are betray'd

  Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor

  Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus,

  That didst set up my disobedience 'gainst the King

  My father, and make me put into contempt the suits

  Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find

  It is no act of common passage but

  A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself

  To think, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her

  That now thou tirest on, how thy memory

  Will then be pang'd by me. Prithee dispatch.

  The lamb entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife?

  Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding,

  When I desire it too.

  Why, I have to die,

  and if I don't die at your hand you are

  no servant to your master.There is such a

  holy ban on suicide

  that I'm scared to do it.Come on, here's my heart -

  there's something in front of it, get away, we'll have no defences!-

  as ready to accept your sword as a scabbard.What's this?

  The holy words of loyal Leonatus

  being blasphemed?Go away,

  corrupters of my faith!You will no longer

  be wrapped round my heart.This is how poor fools

  believe false teachers; though those who are misled

  feel the betrayal hard, the ones who led them astray

  are in a worse position.And you, Posthumus,

  who caused me to disobey my father

  the King, and made me treat the offers of princes

  with contempt, will find later on

  that those were not normal acts, but showed

  my special qualities; and it makes me sad

  to think, when you have finished with the one