« ZurückWeiter »
O sweet Paulina,
Make me to think so twenty years together;
I could afflict you further.
For this affliction has a taste as sweet
As any cordial comfort.-Still, methinks,
There is an air comes from her: What fine chizzel Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, For I will kiss her.
Stand by, a looker-on.
And take you by the hand: but then you'll think, (Which I protest against,) I am assisted
By wicked powers.
To make her speak, as move.
It is requir'd,
So long could I
What you can make her do,
You do awake your faith: Then, all stand still; Or those, that think it is unlawful business
I am about, let them depart.
No foot shall stir.
Musick; awake her: strike.—
[Musick. 'Tis time; descend; be stone no more: approach; Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come; I'll fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away; Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him Dear life redeems you.-You perceive, she stirs: [Hermione comes down from the pedestal. Start not: her actions shall be holy, as, You hear, my spell is lawful: do not shun her, Until you see her die again; for then You kill her double: Nay, present your hand: When she was young, you woo'd her; now, in age, Is she become the suitor.
If this be magick,
She embraces him.
If she pertain to life, let her speak too.
Pol. Ay, and make't manifest where she has liv`d,
Or, how stol'n from the dead?
O, she's warm! [Embracing her. let it be an art
Paul. That she is living, Were it but told you, should be hooted at Like an old tale; but it appears, she lives, Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while.-Please you to interpose, fair madam; kneel,
And pray your mother's blessing.-Turn, good lady; Our Perdita is found.
[Presenting Perdita, who kneels to Hermione. Her. You gods, look down, And from your sacred vials pour your graces Upon my daughter's head!-Tell me, mine own, Where hast thou been preserv'd? where liv'd? how found
Thy father's court? for thou shalt hear, that I,—
To see the issue.
Paul. There's time enough for that; Lest they desire, upon this push, to trouble Your joys with like relation.-Go together, You precious winners all; your exultation Partake to every one. I, an old turtle, Will wing me to some wither'd bough; and there My mate, that's never to be found again, Lament till I am lost.
Thou hast found
But how, is to be question'd: for I saw her,
As I thought, dead; and have, in vain, said many
prayer upon her grave: I'll not seek far (For him, I partly know his mind,) to find thee An honourable husband:-Come, Camillo,
And take her by the hand: whose worth, and honesty,
Is richly noted; and here justify'd
By us, a pair of kings.-Let's from this place.— What?-Look upon my brother:-both your pardons,
That e'er I put between your holy looks