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How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not What monster’s her accuser? Leonatus, O master! what a strange infection Is fall’n into thy ear! What false Italian, As poisonous-tongued as handed, hath prevail’d On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal! No: She’s punish’d for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O my master! Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How! that I should murder her? Upon the love and truth and vows which I Have made to thy command? I, her? her blood? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I, That I should seem to lack humanity so much as this fact comes to?
What? Adultery? Why don’t you say Who is accusing her of this? Leonatus, Oh, master! What a terrible lie Has fallen on your ears! What lying Italian, As poisonous in speech as in action, has convinced You, who are so quick to listen? Disloyal? No: She’s punished for being truthful, and faces, More like a goddess than a wife, such attacks As would corrupt some virtue. Oh, my master! Your feelings for her are now as low as Your fortunes. What? That I should kill her? Based on the love and loyalty I’ve pledged to you? Her? Her blood? If that’s what’s required to serve you, then Never let me be called loyal. How could I, Seem so inhuman as to do such a thing?
’Do’t: the letter that I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity.’ O damn’d paper! Black as the ink that’s on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a feodary for this act, and look’st So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes. I am ignorant in what I am commanded.
’Do it: the letter That I’ve sent her, by her own order, Shall give you the chance.’ Oh, cursed paper! Black as the ink on you! Senseless fool, Are you an accomplice in this, looking So innocent on the outside? Here she comes. I don’t understand what I’ve been told to do.
How now, Pisanio!
What’s this, Pisanio?
Madam, here is a letter from my lord.
Madam, here’s a letter from my lord.
Who? thy lord? that is my lord, Leonatus! O, learn’d indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters; He’ld lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here contain’d relish of love, Of my lord’s health, of his content, yet not That we two are asunder; let that grieve him: Some griefs are med’cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love: of his content, All but in that! Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike: Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid’s tables. Good news, gods!
Who? Your lord? That’s my lord, Leonatus! Oh, how wise would be the astronomer Who knew the stars as well as I know his heart; He would lay the future bare. You good gods, Let what’s in this letter be full of love, Of my lord’s health, and his happiness, but not That we’re apart; let that trouble him: Some sorrows can be healed; this one can, Because it heals love: as for his happiness, All but that! Good wax, let me seal it. Bless the Bees that make this seal of advice! Lovers And men in danger don’t pray the same: Though you throw criminals in jail, still You hold tight to Cupid’s vows. Good news, gods!
’Justice, and your father’s wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me, as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford-Haven: what your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness, that remains loyal to his vow, and your, increasing in love, LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.’ O, for a horse with wings! Hear’st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford-Haven: read, and tell me How far ’tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio,-- Who long’st, like me, to see thy lord; who long’st,-- let me bate,-but not like me--yet long’st, But in a fainter kind:--O, not like me; For mine’s beyond beyond--say, and speak thick; Love’s counsellor should fill the bores of hearing, To the smothering of the sense--how far it is To this same blessed Milford: and by the way Tell me how Wales was made so happy as To inherit such a haven: but first of all, How we may steal from hence, and for the gap That we shall make in time, from our hence-going And our return, to excuse: but first, how get hence: Why should excuse be born or e’er begot? We’ll talk of that hereafter. Prithee, speak, How many score of miles may we well ride ’Twixt hour and hour?
’Justice, and your father’s anger, if he took me under his control, couldn’t be as cruel to me as you, O the dearest of creatures, would be if you even healed me with your eyes. Notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford-Haven: follow what your own love advises you, So he wishes you all happiness, who stays loyal to his vow, and yours, growing in love, LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.’ Oh, for a horse with wings! Did you hear that, Pisanio? He is at Milford-Haven: read this, and tell me How far it is to get there. If someone with common tasks can walk it in a week, why can’t I get there in a day? Then, true Pisanio,-- Who, like me, is eager to see your lord; who’s eager,-- let me cut that short,-but not like me--still eager, But in a weaker way:--Oh, not like me; For mine is beyond beyond--say, and speak quickly; Love’s advisor should fill the ears, Until the senses are overwhelmed--how far it is To this blessed Milford: and on the way Tell me how Wales became so lucky to inherit such a haven: but first of all, How we can escape from here, and explain away The time lost when we leave And return: but first, how to leave: Why should we make excuses or even start them? We’ll talk about that later. Please, speak, How many miles can we ride In one hour?
One score ’twixt sun and sun, Madam, ’s enough for you:
A score of miles between sunrises, Madam, is enough for you:
and too much too.
and too much, too.
Why, one that rode to’s execution, man, Could never go so slow: I have heard of riding wagers, Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i’ the clock’s behalf. But this is foolery: Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say She’ll home to her father: and provide me presently A riding-suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin’s housewife.
Why, someone heading to their execution, man, Could never go that slowly: I’ve heard of riding bets, Where horses were faster than the sands That run in the clock’s favor. But this is foolishness: Go tell my woman to pretend she’s sick; say She’ll go home to her father: and get me right away A riding outfit, no more expensive than what A country housewife would wear.
Madam, you’re best consider.
Madam, you’d better think carefully.
I see before me, man: nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them, That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; Do as I bid thee: there’s no more to say, Accessible is none but Milford way.
I see everything before me, man: neither here, nor here, Nor what follows, but there’s a fog in them, That I can’t see through. Go, I beg you; Do as I tell you: there’s nothing more to say, Only Milford is the way.