vendredi 9 novembre 2007

Perdita


"Come, poor babe.

I have heard, but not believed, the spirits o'th' dead

May walk again. If such things be, thy mother

Appeared to me last night, for ne'er was dream

So like a waking. To me comes a creature,

Sometimes her head on one side, some another.

I never saw a vessel of like sorrow,

So filled and so becoming. In pure white robes

Like very sanctity she did approach

My cabin where I lay, thrice bowed before me,

And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes

Became two spouts. The fury spent, anon

Did this break from her: 'Good Antigonus,

Since fate, against thy better disposition,

Hath made thy person for the thrower-out

Of my poor babe according to thine oath,

Places remote enough are in Bohemia.

There weep, and leave it crying; and for the babe

Is counted lost for ever, Perdita

I prithee call't. For this ungentle business

Put on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see

Thy wife Paulina more.' And so with shrieks

She melted into air. Affrighted much,

I did in time collect myself, and thought

This was so, and no slumber. Dreams are toys,

Yet for this once, yea superstitiously,

I will be squared by this."