Leonatus, Father to Posthumus, an old Man, attired like a Warrior; leading in his Hand an ancient Matron, his Wife, and Mother to Posthumus, with Musick before them. Then, after other Musick, follow the Two young Leonati, Brothers to Posthumus, with Wounds as they died in the Wars. They circle Posthumus round, as he lies sleeping.

Sici.

No more, thou thunder-master, show
  Thy spite on mortal flies:
With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,
  That thy adulteries
    Rates and revenges.

Hath my poor boy done aught but well,
  Whose face I never saw?
I died; whilst in the womb he stay'd
  Attending Nature's law.
Whose father then (as men report,
  Thou orphans' father art,)

Thou should'st have been, and shielded him
  From this earth-vexing smart.

Moth.
Lucina lent not me her aid,
  But took me in my throes;
That from me was Posthúmus ript^{4 note}

Sici.
Great nature, like his ancestry,
  Moulded the stuff so fair,
That he deserv'd the praise o' the world,
  As great Sicilius' heir.

1 Bro.
When once he was mature for man,
  In Britain where was he
That could stand up his parallel;
  Or fruitful object be
In eye of Imogen, that best
  Could deem his dignity?

Moth.
With marriage wherefore was he mock'd^{5 note}
,
  To be exil'd, and thrown
From Leonati' seat, and cast
  From her his dearest one,
    Sweet Imogen?

Sici.
Why did you suffer Iachimo,
  Slight thing of Italy,

To taint his nobler heart and brain
  With needless jealousy;
And to become the geck^{6 note}

2 Bro.
For this, from stiller seats we came,
  Our parents, and us twain,
That, striking in our country's cause,
  Fell bravely, and were slain;
Our fealty, and Tenantius'^{7 note} right,
  With honour to maintain.

1 Bro.
Like hardiment Posthumus hath
  To Cymbeline perform'd:
Then Jupiter, thou king of gods,
  Why hast thou thus adjourn'd
The graces for his merits due;
  Being all to dolours turn'd?

Sici.
Thy crystal window ope; look out;
  No longer exercise,
Upon a valiant race, thy harsh
  And potent injuries:

Moth.
Since, Jupiter, our son is good,
  Take off his miseries.

Sici.
Peep through thy marble mansion; help!
  Or we poor ghosts will cry
To the shining synod of the rest,
  Against thy deity.

2 Bro.
Help, Jupiter; or we appeal,
  And from thy justice fly. Jupiter descends^{8 note} in Thunder and Lightning, sitting

upon an Eagle: he throws a Thunder-bolt, The Ghosts fall on their Knees.

Jup.
No more, you petty spirits of region low,
  Offend our hearing; hush!—How dare you ghosts,
Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt you know,
  Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts?
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence; and rest
  Upon your never-withering banks of flowers:
Be not with mortal accidents opprest;
  No care of yours it is; you know, 'tis ours.
Whom best I love, I cross; to make my gift,
  The more delay'd, delighted^{9 note}

This tablet lay upon his breast; wherein
  Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine;
And so, away: no further with your din
  Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.—
  Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline^{1 note}
. [Ascends.

Sici.
He came in thunder; his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell^{2 note}

All.
Thanks, Jupiter!

Sici.
The marble pavement closes^{6 note}

, he is enter'd
His radiant roof:—Away! and, to be blest,
Let us with care perform his great behest. [Ghosts vanish.

Post. [Waking.]

Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire, and begot
A father to me: and thou hast created
A mother, and two brothers: But (O scorn!)
Gone! they went hence so soon as they were born,
And so I am awake.—Poor wretches that depend
On greatness' favour, dream as I have done;
Wake, and find nothing.—But, alas, I swerve:
Many dream not to find, neither deserve,
And yet are steep'd in favours; so am I,
That have this golden chance, and know not why.
What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O, rare one!
Be not, as is our fangled world^{7 note}

Nobler than that it covers: let thy effects
So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers,
As good as promise. [Reads.]

When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate, and flourish in peace and plenty.

'Tis still a dream; or else such stuff as madmen
Tongue, and brain not^{7 note}
: either both, or nothing:
Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such
As sense cannot untie^{8 note}



. Be what it is,
The action of my life is like it, which
I'll keep, if but for sympathy. Re-enter Gaolers.

Gaol.
Come, sir, are you ready for death?

Post.
Over-roasted rather: ready long ago.

Gaol.

Hanging is the word sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cooked.

Post.

So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.

Gaol.

A heavy reckoning for you, sir: But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills; which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much^{9 note}

Post.

I am merrier to die, than thou art to live.

Gaol.

Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the tooth-ach: But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think, he would change places with his officer: for, look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.

Post.

Yes, indeed, do I fellow.

Gaol.

Your death has eyes in's head then; I have not seen him so pictured: you must either be directed by some that take upon them to know; or take upon yourself that, which I am sure you do not know; or jump the after-inquiry^{4 note}

Post.

I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink, and will not use them.

Gaol.

What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes, to see the way of blindness! I am sure, hanging's the way of winking.

Mess.

Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the king.

Post.

Thou bringest good news;—I am called to be made free.

Gaol.

I'll be hanged then.

Post.

Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.