The Winter's Tale

William Shakespeare

• Verlag: Nick Hern Books
• Jahr: 2015
• ISBN:
  9781780016832
• Thema: Letteratura
• Thema: Teatro shakespeariano

A jealous king, an abandoned daughter, a prince hopelessly in love.

Shakespeare's timeless tragicomedy of obsession and redemption is reimagined in a new production co-directed by Rob Ashford and Kenneth Branagh.

It was performed as part of the Kenneth Branagh Theatre Company's Plays at the Garrick Season in 2015, starring Judi Dench and Kenneth Branagh.

This official tie-in edition features the version of Shakespeare's text performed in the production, plus exclusive additional content.

ACT FOUR

Scene One

Time.

Enter PAULINA as TIME, the chorus.

TIME.

I, that please some, try all, both joy and terror

Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error,

Now take upon me, in the name of Time,

To use my wings. Impute it not a crime

To me or my swift passage, that I slide

O’er sixteen years and leave the growth untried

Of that wide gap, your patience this allowing,

I turn my glass and give my scene such growing

As you had slept between: Leontes leaving,

The effects of his fond jealousies so grieving

That he shuts up himself, imagine me,

Gentle spectators, that I now may be

In fair Bohemia, and remember well,

I mentioned a son o’ the king’s, which Florizel

I now name to you; and with speed so pace

To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace

Equal with wondering: what of her ensues

I list not prophecy; but let Time’s news

Be known when ’tis brought forth. A shepherd’s daughter,

And what to her adheres, which follows after,

Is the argument of Time. Of this allow,

If ever you have spent time worse ere now;

If never, yet that Time himself doth say

He wishes earnestly you never may.

Exit.

Scene Two

A road near the shepherd’s cottage.

Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing whilst SHEPHERDS collect the wool from shorn sheep.

AUTOLYCUS.

When daffodils begin to peer,

With heigh! the doxy over the dale,

Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year;

For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,

With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing!

Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;

For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

The lark, that tirra-lyra chants,

With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay,

Are summer songs for me and my aunts,

While we lie tumbling in the hay.

I have served Prince Florizel and in my time wore three-pile; but now I am out of service:

But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?

The pale moon shines by night:

And when I wander here and there,

I then do most go right.

If tinkers may have leave to live,

And bear the sow-skin budget,

Then my account I well may, give,

And in the stocks avouch it.

My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus; who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is the silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway: beating and hanging are terrors to me: for the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it. A prize! a prize!

Enter CLOWN.

CLOWN.

Let me see: every ’leven wether tods; every tod yields pound and odd shilling; fifteen hundred shorn – what comes the wool to?

AUTOLYCUS.

(Aside.) If the springe hold, the cock’s mine.

CLOWN.

I cannot do’t without counters. Let me see; what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? Three pound of sugar, five pound of currants, rice, – what will this sister of mine do with rice? But my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it on. I must have saffron to colour the warden pies; mace; dates? – none, that’s out of my note; nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, but that I may beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o’ the sun.

AUTOLYCUS.

(Grovelling on the ground.) O that ever I was born!

CLOWN.

I’ the name of me –

AUTOLYCUS.

O, help me, help me! pluck but off these rags; and then, death, death!

CLOWN.

Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee, rather than have these off.

AUTOLYCUS.

O sir, the loathsomeness of them offends me more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions.

CLOWN.

Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a great matter.

AUTOLYCUS.

I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my...