Arviragus.
The noise is round about us.

Bel.
Let us from it.
We'll higher to the mountains, there secure us.
To the king's party there's no going; newness
Of Cloten death, we being not known, nor muster'd
Among the bands, may drive us to a render
Where we have liv'd: and so extort from's that
Which we have done, whose answer would be death,
Drawn on with torture.

Guid.
This is, sir, a doubt,
(In such a time) nothing becoming you,
Nor satisfying us.

Arv.
It is not likely,

That when they hear the Roman horses neigh,
Behold their quarter'd fires, have both their eyes
And ears so cloy'd importantly as now,
That they will waste their time upon our note,
To know from whence we are.

Bel.
Oh, I am known
Of many in the army; and besides the king
Hath not deserv'd my service, nor your loves.

Guid.
Pray, sir, to the army;
I, and my brother are not known; yourself
So out of thought, and thereto so o'er grown,
Cannot be question'd.

Arv.
By this sun that shines,
I'll thither; what thing is it, that I never
Did see man die, scarce ever look'd on blood,
But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison!
I am asham'd to look upon the holy sun, to have
The benefit of his blest beams, remaining
So long a poor unknown—

Guid.
By heav'ns, I'll go;
If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave,
I'll take the better care: but if you will not,
The hazard therefore due fall on me, by
The hands of Romans.

Arv.
So say I.

Bel.
No reason I, since of your lives you set
So slight a valuation, should reserve
My crack'd one to more care. Have with you, boys.
If in your country wars you chance to die.
That is my bed, too, lads, and there I'll lye. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE, a Field between the British and Roman Camps. Enter Posthumus, with a bloody Handkerchief.

Post.
Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish
Thou should'st be colour'd thus. You married ones,
If each of you would take this course, how many
Must murder wives much better than yourselves,
For wrying but a little? Oh, Pisanio!
Every good servant does not all commands—

No bond, but to do just ones. Gods! if you
Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never
Had liv'd to put on this; so had you sav'd
The noble Imogen to repent, and struck
Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance.
But Imogen is your own, do your best wills,
And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither,
Among the Italian gentry, and to fight
Against my lady's kingdom; 'tis enough
That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace!
I'll give no wound to thee; therefore, good heav'ns,
Hear patiently my purpose; I have conceal'd
My Italian weeds, under this semblance
Of a British peasant; so I'll fight
Against the part I come with: so I'll die
For thee, O Imogen, for whom my life
Is every breath a death; and thus unknown,
Pitied, nor hated, to the face of peril,
My self I'll dedicate. [Trumpet sounds a Call.
Hark! hark! I'm call'd.
Gods, put the strength o'th' Leonati in me!
To shame the guise o' th' world, I will begin
The fashion. Less without, and more within. [Exit. Scene SCENE, a Field of Battle. A grand Fight between the Romans and Britons, the Romans are drove off. Enter Posthumus and Iachimo Fighting. Iachimo drops his sword.

Post.
Or yeild thee, Roman, or thou dy'st.

Iach.
Peasant, behold my breast.

Post.
No, take thy life, and mend it. [Exit. Post.

Iach.
The heaviness and sin within my bosom,
Takes off my manhood. I've bely'd a lady,
The princess of this country, and the air on't
Revengingly enfeebles me, or could this carle,
A very drudge of nature, have subdu'd me,
In my profession; knighthoods and honours borne
As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn;

With heav'n against me, what is sword or shield?
My guilt, my guilt, o'erpowers me, and I yield. [Exit. Scene SCENE, a Wood. Enter Pisanio and 1st Lord.

1 Lord.
This is a day turn'd strangely.
Cam'st thou from where they made the stand?

Pis.
I did.
Though you, it seems, came from the fliers.

1 Lord.
I did.

Pis.
No blame to you, sir, for all was lost,
But that the Heav'ns fought; the king himself
Of his wings destitute, the army broken,
And but the backs of Britons seen: all flying
Through a straight lane, the enemy full-hearted,
Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, struck down
Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling,
Merely through fear, that the straight pass was damm'd
With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living,
To die with lengthen'd shame.

1 Lord.
Where was this lane?

Pis.
Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf,
Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,
(An honest one, I warrant) Athwart the lane,
He, with two stripling lads, more like to run
The country base, than to commit such slaughter,
Made good the passage, cry'd to the fliers, stand,
Or we are Romans, and will give you that,
Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save
But to look back in frown: stand, stand. These three—

1 Lord.
Were there but three?

Pis.
There was a fourth man, in a poor rustic habit,
That stood the front with them. These matchless four,
Accommodated by the place, gilded pale looks,

Part shame, part spirit renew'd, that some turn'd cowards,
But by example, 'gan to look
The way that they did, and to grin like lions,
Upon the pikes o'th' hunter. Then began
A stop i'th' chaser, a retire; anon
A rout, confusion thick, and the event
A victory for us.

1 Lord.
This was strange chance!
An old man, two boys, and a poor rustic.

Pis.
Nay, do not wonder—but go with me, and
See these wonders, and join the general joy. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE, a Wood. Enter Posthumus.

Post.
To-day, how many would have given their honours,
To've sav'd their carcasses? Took heel to do't,
And yet died, too. I, in mine own woe charm'd,
Could not find death, where I did hear him groan,
Nor feel him where he struck. This ugly monster,
'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,
Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we,
That draw his knives i'th' war. Well, I will find him;
No more a Briton, I have resumed again
The part I came in. Fight I will no more,
But yield me to the veriest hind that shall
Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is,
On either side. For me, my ransom's death,
O grievous is this burden, life, to me;
Which neither here I'll keep, nor bear again,
But cast it off to meet my Imogen. [Exit. Scene SCENE, Cymbeline's Tent. [A Flourish. Enter Cymbeline, Bellarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, and Lords.

Cym.
Stand by my side, you, whom the gods have made
Preservers of my throne: woe is my heart,

That the poor soldier that so richly fought,
(Whose rags sham'd gilded arms, whose naked breast
Step'd before shields of proof) cannot be found:
He shall be happy that can find him, if
Our grace can make him so.

Bel.
I never saw
Such noble fury, in so poor a thing.

Cym.
No tidings of him?

Pis.
He hath been search'd among the dead and living,
But no trace of him.

Cym.
To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward, which I will add
To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain, [To Bel. Guid. and Arv.
By whom, I grant, she lives. 'Tis now the time.
To ask of whence you are. Report it.

Bel.
Sir,
In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen:
Further to boast, were neither true nor modest,
Unless I add, we are honest.

Cym.
Bow your knees,
Arise, my knights o'th' battle, I create you
Companions to our person, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates.* ^note

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman Prisoners. Leonatus behind, and Imogen.
Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute, that
The Britons have raz'd out, though with the loss
Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit

That their good souls may be appeas'd, with slaughter
Of you their captives, which ourself have granted.
So think of your estate.

Luc.
Consider, sir, the chance of war; the day
Was yours by accident: had it gone with us,
We should not, when the blood was cool, have threatened
Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be call'd ransome, let it come: sufficeth
A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer:
Augustus lives to think on't; and so much
For my peculiar care. This one thing only,
I will intreat; my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ransom'd;
He hath done no Briton harm,
Though he hath serv'd a Roman. Save him, sir,
And spare no blood beside.

Cym.
I've surely seen him;
His favour is familiar to me. Boy,
Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace,
I know not why, nor wherefore,
To say, live boy: ne'er thank thy master, live;
And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,
Fitting my bounty, and thy state, I'll give it:
Know'st him thou look'st on? Speak,
Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?

Imo.
He is a Roman, no more kin to me,
Than I to your highness, who being born your vassal,
Am something nearer.

Cym.
Wherefore ey'est him so?

Imo.
I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please
To give me hearing.

Cym.
Ay, with all my heart,
And lend my best attention. What's thy name?

Imo.
Fidele, sir.

Cym.
Thou'rt my good youth, my page,
I'll be thy master: walk with me, speak freely. [Go aside.

Bel.
Is not this boy reviv'd from death?

Arv.
One sand another
Not more resembles, than he th' sweet rosy lad,
Who dy'd, and was Fidele: what think you?

Guid.
The same dead thing, alive.

Bel.
Peace, peace, see further.

Pis.
It is my mistress: [Aside.
Since she is living, let the time run on,
To good or bad.

Cym.
Come, stand thou by our side.
Make thy demand aloud. Sir, step you forth, [To Iach.
Give answer to this boy, and do it freely,
Or by our greatness, and the grace of it,
Which is our honour, bitter torture shall
Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him.

Imo.
My boon is, that this gentleman may tender
Of whom he had this ring.

Post.
What's that to him! [Aside wondering.

Cym.
That diamond upon your finger, say,
How came it yours?

Iach.
Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken that,
Which to be spoke would torture thee.

Cym.
How! me?

Iach.
I am glad to be constrain'd to utter what
Torments me to conceal. By villany
I got this ring; 'twas Leonathus' jewel,
Whom thou didst banish.
Wilt thou hear more, my lord?

Cym.
All that belongs to this.

Iach.
That paragon, thy daughter,
For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits
Quail to remember. Give me leave—I faint— [Swoons.

Cym.
My daughter! what of her? Renew thy strength,
I had rather thou should'st live, while nature will,
Than die ere I hear more: strive, man, and speak.

Iach.
Upon a time, (unhappy was the clock
That struck the hour) it was in Rome, (accursed
The mansion where,) 'twas at a feast, oh would

Our viands had been poison'd! or at least
Those which I heav'd to head: the worthy Posthumus—

Cym.
I stand on fire. Come, to the matter.

Iach.
Your daughter's chastity; there it begins.* ^note
He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreams,
And she alone were cold; whereat, I, wretch,
Made scruple of his praise, and wag'd with him
Pieces of gold, 'gainst this, which then he wore
Upon his honour'd finger, to attain
In suit the place of's bed, and win this ring,
By hers and mine adultery. Away to Britain
Post I in this design: well may you, sir,
Remember me at court, where I was taught,
By your chaste daughter, the wide difference
'Twixt amorous, and villanous.
Yet, to be brief, my practice so prevail'd,
That I return'd with similar proof, enough
To make the noble Leonatus mad,
By wounding his belief in her renown,
With tokens thus and thus; that he could not
But think her bond of chastity quite crack'd,
I having ta'en the forfeit; whereupon,
Methinks I see him, now—

Post.
Ay, so thou do'st, [Coming forward.
Italian fiend! Ah me, most credulous fool,
Egregious murderer, thief, any thing
That's due to all the villains past, in being,
To come—Oh, give me cord, knife, or poison,
Some upright justicer. Thou, king, send out
For torturers ingenious. I am Posthumus,
That kill'd thy daughter; that kill'd my wife:
Villain-like, I lye,
That caus'd a lesser villain than myself,
A sacrilegious thief to do't. The temple

Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself—
Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set
The dogs o'th' street to bait me: every villain
Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and
Be villany less than 'twas. Oh, Imogen!
My queen, my life, my wife; oh, Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!

Imo.
Peace, my lord, hear, hear—

Post.
Away—thou scornful page, there is no peace for me. [Striking her, she falls.

Pis.
Oh, gentlemen, help,
Mine and your mistress—Oh, my lord Posthumus!
You ne'er kill'd Imogen 'till now—help, help,
Mine honour'd lady—

Cym.
Does the world go round?

Post.
How come these staggers on me?

Pis.
Wake, my mistress.

Cym.
If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me
To death, with mortal joy.

Imo.
Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
Think that you are upon a rock, and now
Throw me again.

Post.
Hang there like fruit, my soul,
'Till the tree die.

Cym.
My child! my child!
My dearest Imogen.

Imo.
Your blessing, sir. [Kneeling.

Bel.
Tho' you did love this youth, I blame you not,
You had a motive for't.

Cym.
My tears that fall
Prove holy water on thee; Imogen,
Thy mother's dead.

Imo.
I'm sorry for't, my lord.

Cym.
Oh, she was nought: and long of her it was
That we meet here so strangely; but her son
Is gone, we know not how, nor where.

Guid.
Let me end the story; 'twas I that slew him.

Cym.
The gods forefend.

I would not thy good deeds should from my lips
Pluck a hard sentence: pr'ythee, valiant youth,
Deny't again.

Guid.
I have spoke it, and I did it.

Cym.
He was a prince.

Guid.
A most uncivil one. The wrongs he did me,
Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me,
With language that would make me spurn the sea,
If it could so roar to me. I cut off's head,
And am right glad he is not standing here,
To tell this tale of mine.

Cym.
Bind the offender,
And take him from our presence.

Bel.
Stay, sir king,
This man is better than the man he slew,
As well descended as thyself, and hath
More of thee merited, than a band of Clotens,
Had ever scar for. Let his arms alone,
They were not born for bondage.

Cym.
Why, old soldier,
Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for,
By tasting of our wrath? How of descent
As good as we?

Bel.
I am too blunt and saucy: here's my knee;
Mighty sir,
These two young gentlemen that call me father,
And think they are my sons, are none of mine,
They are the issue of your loins, my liege,
And blood of your begetting.

Cym.
How? my issue?

Bel.
So sure as you your father's: I, old Morgan,
Am that Bellarius, whom you sometime banish'd;
Your pleasure was at once my offence, my punishment
Itself, and all my treason. These gentle princes,
For such, and so they are, these twenty years
Have I train'd up; those arts they have, that I
Could put into them. But, gracious sir,
Here are your sons again: and I must lose
Two of the sweet'st companions in the world.

The benediction of these covering heav'ns,
Fall on their heads like dew, for they are worthy
To in-lay Heav'ns Heav'n with stars.

Cym.
Thou weep'st and speak'st:
The service that you three have done is more
Unlike, than this thou tell'st. I lost my children—
If these be they, I know not how to wish
A pair of worthier sons. Arviragus had
Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star:
It was a mark of wonder.

Bel.
This is he,
Who hath upon him still that natural stamp;
It was wise nature's end, in the donation,
To be his evidence, now.

Cym.
Oh, what am I
A mother to the birth of three? Ne'er mother
Rejoic'd deliverance more; blest may you be,
That after this strange starting from your orbs,
You may reign in them now. Oh, Imogen,
Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.

Imo.
No, my lord:
I have got two worlds by't. Oh, my gentle brothers,
Have we thus met? Oh never say, hereafter,
But I am truest speaker. You call'd me brother,
When I was but your sister: I you brother,
When ye were so indeed.

Cym.
Did you e're meet?

Arv.
Ay, my good lord.

Guid.
And at first meeting lov'd.

Cym.
All o'erjoy'd,
Save these in bonds; let them be joyful too,
For they shall taste our comfort.
The forlorn soldier that so nobly fought.
He would have well become this place, and grac'd
The thankings of a king.

Post.
I am, sir,
The soldier that did company these three,
In poor beseeming: 'twas a sitment for
The purpose I then follow'd. That I was he,

Speak, Iachimo, I had you down, and might
Have made your finish.† ^note

Iach.
I am down again: [Kneels.
But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,
As then your force did. But your ring, first,
And here the bracelet of the truest princess,
That ever swore her faith: now take that life,
Beseech you, which I so often owe.

Post.
Kneel not to me:
The power that I have on you, is to spare you;
The malice towards you, to forgive you. Live,
And deal with others better.* ^note

Cym.
Nobly doom'd:
We'll learn our freeness of a son-in law:
Pardon's the word to all. Laud we the gods;
And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils,
From our blest altars. Publish we this peace,
To all our subjects. Set we forward: let
A Roman and a British ensign wave
Friendly together; so through Lud's town march,
And in the temple of great Jupiter,
Our peace we'll ratify; seal it with feasts.
Set on, there: Never was a war did cease,
Ere bloody hands were wash'd, with such a peace. [Exeunt omnes.‡ ^note End of the Fifth Act.

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