Cymbeline.
Now say, what would Augustus Cæsar with us?

Luc.
When Julius Cæsar, (whose remembrance yet
Lives in mens eyes, and will to ears and tongues
Be theme, and hearing ever) was in this Britain,
And conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle,(23) ^note

(Famous in Cæsar's praises, no whit less
Than in his feats deserving it) for him,
And his succession, granted Rome a Tribute,
Yearly three thousand pounds; which by thee lately
Is left untender'd.

Queen.
And, to kill the marvail,
Shall be so ever.

Clot.
There be many Cæsars,
Ere such another Julius: Britain is(24) ^note

Queen.
That opportunity,
Which then they had to take from's, to resume
We have again. Remember, Sir, my liege,
The Kings your ancestors: together with
The nat'ral Brav'ry of your Isle; which stands,

As Neptune's Park, ribbed and paled in
With oaks unskaleable, and roaring waters;
With Sands, that will not bear your enemies boats,
But suck them up to th' top-mast. A kind of Conquest
Cæsar made here, but made not here his brag
Of, came, and saw, and overcame. With shame,
(The first, that ever touch'd him) he was carried
From off our coast, 'twice beaten; and his shipping,
(Poor ignorant baubles,) on our terrible seas,
Like egg-shells mov'd upon their surges, crack'd
As easily 'gainst our rocks. For joy whereof,
The fam'd Cassibelan, who was once at point(25) ^note

(Oh, giglet fortune!) to master Cæsar's sword,
Made Lud's town with rejoicing fires bright,
And Britains strut with courage.

Clot.

Come, there's no more Tribute to be paid. Our Kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no more such Cæsars; other of them may have crook'd noses, but to own such strait arms, none.

Cym.

Son, let your mother end.

Clot.

We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan; I do not say, I am one; but I have a hand.—Why, Tribute? Why should we pay Tribute? if Cæsar can hide the Sun from us with a blanket, or put the Moon in his pocket, we will pay him Tribute for light; else, Sir, no more Tribute, pray you now.

Cym.
You must know,

'Till the injurious Romans did extort
This tribute from us, We were free. Cæsar's ambition,
Which swell'd so much, that it did almost stretch
The sides o'th' world, against all colour, here
Did put the yoke upon's; which to shake off,
Becomes a warlike people (which we reckon
Our selves to be) to do. Say then to Cæsar,
Our ancestor was that Mulmutius, who(26) ^note

Ordain'd our Laws, whose use the sword of Cæsar
Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise
Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed,
Though Rome be therefore angry: That Mulmutius,
Who was the first of Britain, which did put
His brows within a golden Crown, and call'd
Himself a King.

Luc.
I'm sorry, Cymbeline,
That I am to pronounce Augustus Cæsar
(Cæsar, that hath more Kings his servants, than
Thy self domestick Officers) thine enemy.
Receive it from me then.—War and Confusion
In Cæsar's name pronounce I 'gainst thee: look
For fury, not to be resisted. Thus defy'd,
I thank thee for my self.

Cym.
Thou'rt welcome, Caius;

Thy Cæsar knighted me; my youth I spent
Much under him: of him I gather'd honour,
Which he to seek of me again perforce,(27) ^note

Behooves me keep at utterance. I am perfect,(28) ^note

Luc.
Let proof speak.

Clot.

His Majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or two, or longer: if you seek us afterwards on other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle: if you beat us out of it, it is yours: if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there's an end.

Luc.

So, Sir.—

Cym.
I know your master's pleasure, and he mine:
All the Remain is, Welcome. [Exeunt. Enter Pisanio, reading a Letter.

Pis.
How? of adultery? wherefore write you not,
What monsters have accus'd her? Leonatus!
Oh master, what a strange infection
Is fall'n into thy ear? what false Italian,
(As pois'nous-tongu'd, as handed) hath prevail'd
On thy too ready Hearing!—Disloyal? no,
She's punish'd for her truth; and undergoes
More Goddess-like, than wife-like, such assaults
As would take in some virtue. Oh, my master!
Thy mind to her is now as low, as were
Thy fortunes. How? that I should murther her?
Upon the love and truth and vows, which I
Have made to thy Command!—I, her!—her blood!
If it be so to do good service, never
Let me be counted serviceable.—How look I,
That I should seem to lack humanity,
So much as this fact comes to? Do't—the letter, [Reading.
That I have sent her, by her own command
Shall give thee opportunity.—Damn'd paper!
Black as the ink that's on thee: senseless bauble!
Art thou a fœdarie for this act, and look'st
So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes. Enter Imogen.
I'm ignorant in what I am commanded.

Imo.
How now, Pisanio?

Pis.
Madam, here is a letter from my lord.

Imo.
Who! thy lord? that is my lord Leonatus:
Oh, learn'd, indeed, were that astronomer,
That knew the stars, as I his characters:
He'd lay the Future open.—You good Gods,
Let what is here contain'd relish of love,
Of my lord's health, of his content;—(yet not

That we two are asunder; let that grieve him!
Some griefs are medicinable; that is one of them,(29) ^note


For it doth physick love;)—of his content,
All but in that.—Good wax, thy leave.—Blest be
You bees, that make these locks of counsel! Lovers,
And men in dang'rous bonds, pray not alike.
Though forfeitures you cast in prison, yet
You clasp young Cupid's tables: good news, Gods! [Reading.

Justice, and your father's wrath, should he take me in his Dominion, could not be so cruel to me; but you, oh the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice, that I am in Cambria, at Milford-Haven: what your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So, he wishes you all happiness, that remains loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love;

Leonatus Posthumus.

Glide thither in a day? then, true Pisanio,
Who long'st like me to see thy lord; who long'st,
(Oh, let me bate) but not like me; yet long'st,—
But in a fainter kind—oh, not like me;
For mine's beyond, beyond—Say, and speak thick;
Love's counsellor should fill the bores of Hearing
To th' smoth'ring of the Sense—how far it is
To this same blessed Milford: and, by th' way,
Tell me how Wales was made so happy, as
T'inherit such a haven. But, first of all,
How may we steal from hence? and for the gap
That we shall make in time, from our hence going
Till our return, t'excuse—but first, how get hence?
Why should excuse be born, or ere-begot?
We'll talk of that hereafter. Pr'ythee, speak,
How many score of miles may we well ride
'Twixt hour and hour?

Pis.
One score 'twixt sun and sun,
Madam, 's enough for you: and too much too.

Imo.
Why, one that rode to's execution, man,
Could never go so slow: I've heard of riding wagers,
Where horses have been nimbler than the sands
That run i'th' clock's behalf. But this is fool'ry.
Go bid my woman feign a sickness, say
She'll home t' her father: and provide me, present,
A riding suit; no costlier than would fit
A Franklin's housewife.

Pis.
Madam, you'd best consider.

Imo.
I see before me, man, nor here, nor here,(30) ^note

Nor what ensues, but have a fog in Ken,
That I cannot look thro'. Away, I pr'ythee,
Do as I bid thee, there's no more to say:
Accessible is none but Milford way. [Exeunt.

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