Bel.
A goodly day! not to keep house, with such
Whose roof's as low as ours: see, boys! this gate
Instructs you how t'adore the heav'ns; and bows you
To morning's holy office. Gates of monarchs
Are arch'd so high, that Giants may jet through
And keep their impious Turbands on, without
Good morrow to the Sun. Hail, thou fair heav'n!
We house i'th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly
As prouder livers do.

Guid.
Hail, heaven!

Arv.
Hail, heav'n!

Bel.
Now for our mountain sport, up to yond hill,
Your legs are young: I'll tread these flats. Consider,
When you, above, perceive me like a crow,
That it is place which lessens and sets off;
And you may then revolve what tales I told you,
Of Courts, of Princes, of the tricks in war;
That service is not service, so being done,
But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus,
Draws us a profit from all things we see:
And often, to our comfort, shall we find
The sharded beetle in a safer hold,

Than is the full-wing'd eagle. Oh, this life
Is nobler than attending for a check;
Richer, than doing nothing for a bauble;
Prouder, than rustling in unpaid-for silk:
Such gain the cap of him, that makes them fine,
Yet keeps his book uncross'd; no life to ours.

Guid.
Out of your proof you speak; we, poor, unfledg'd,
Have never wing'd from view o'th' nest; nor know,
What air's from home. Hap'ly, this life is best,
If quiet life is best; sweeter to you,
That have a sharper known: well corresponding
With your stiff age; but unto us, it is
A cell of ign'rance; travelling a-bed,
A prison, for a debtor that not dares
To stride a limit.

Arv.
What should we speak of,
When we are old as you? when we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December? how,
In this our pinching Cave, shall we discourse
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing;
We're beastly; subtle as the fox for prey,
Like warlike as the wolf, for what we eat:
Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage
We make a choir, as doth the prison'd bird,
And sing our bondage freely.

Bel.
How you speak!
Did you but know the city's usuries,
And felt them knowingly; the art o'th' Court,
As hard to leave, as keep; whose top to climb,
Is certain falling; or so slipp'ry, that
The fear's as bad as falling; the toil of war;
A pain, that only seems to seek out danger
I'th' name of fame and honour; which dies i'th' search,
And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph,
As record of fair act; nay, many time,
Doth ill deserve, by doing well: what's worse,
Must curt'sie at the censure:—Oh, boys, this story
The world may read in me: my body's mark'd

With Roman swords; and my Report was once
First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me;
And when a soldier was the theam, my name
Was not far off: then was I as a tree,
Whose boughs did bend with fruit. But, in one night,
A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves;
And left me bare to weather.

Guid.
Uncertain favour!

Bel.
My fault being nothing, as I have told you oft,
But that two villains (whose false oaths prevail'd
Before my perfect honour) swore to Cymbeline,
I was confed'rate with the Romans: so,
Follow'd my banishment; and, this twenty years,
This rock and these demesnes have been my world;
Where I have liv'd at honest freedom; pay'd
More pious debts to heaven, than in all
The fore-end of my time.—But, up to th' mountains!
This is not hunters' language; he, that strikes
The venison first, shall be the lord o'th' feast;
To him the other two shall minister,
And we will fear no poison, which attends
In place of greater State:
I'll meet you in the valleys. [Exeunt Guid. and Arvir.
  How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!
These boys know little, they are Sons to th' King;
Nor Cymbeline dreams, that they are alive.
They think, they're mine; tho' trained up thus meanly(31) ^note

I'th' Cave, there, on the Brow, their thoughts do hit
The roof of Palaces; and nature prompts them,
In simple and low things, to prince it, much
Beyond the trick of others. This Paladour,(32) ^note
(The heir of Cymbeline and Britaine, whom
The King his father call'd Guiderius,) Jove!—
When on my three-foot-stool I sit, and tell
The warlike feats I've done, his spirits fly out
Into my story: say, “thus mine enemy fell,
“And thus I set my foot on's neck”—even then
The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,
Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture
That acts my words—The younger brother Cadwall,
(Once, Arviragus,) in as like a figure
Strikes life into my speech, and shews much more
His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rouz'd.—
Oh Cymbeline! heav'n and my conscience know,
Thou didst unjustly banish me: whereon
At three and two years old, I stole these babes;
Thinking to bar thee of succession, as
Thou reft'st me of my lands. Euriphile,
Thou wast their nurse; they take thee for their mother,
And every day do honour to her Grave;
My self Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,
They take for natural father. The game's up. [Exit.

Enter Pisanio, and Imogen.

Imo.
Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place
Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so
To see me first, as I have now—Pisanio,
Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind,
That makes thee stare thus? wherefore breaks that sigh
From th' inward of thee? one, but painted thus,
Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd
Beyond self-explication. Put thy self
Into a 'haviour of less fear, ere wildness
Vanquish my stayder senses—what's the matter?
Why tender'st thou that paper to me, with
A look untender? if't be summer news,
Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st
But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand?
That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him,
And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue
May take off some extremity, which to read
Would be ev'n mortal to me.

Pis.
Please you, read;
And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing
The most disdain'd of fortune.

Imogen reads.

Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play'd the strumpet in my bed: the testimonies whereof lye bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief, and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers; let thine own hands take away her life: I shall give thee opportunity at Milford-Haven. She hath my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the Pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.

Pis.
What shall I need to draw my sword? the paper
Hath cut her throat already.—No, 'tis slander;
Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue
Out-venoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belye
All corners of the world. Kings, Queens, and states,
Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the Grave
This viperous slander enters. What chear, madam?

Imo.
False to his bed! what is it to be false?
To lye in watch there, and to think on him?
To weep 'twixt clock and clock? if sleep charge nature,
To break it with a fearful dream of him,
And cry my self awake? that false to's bed!

Pis.
Alas, good lady!

Imo.
I false? thy conscience witness, Iachimo,—
Thou did'st accuse him of incontinency,
Thou then lookd'st like a villain: now, methinks,
Thy favour's good enough. Some Jay of Italy(33) ^note

Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion;
And, for I'm richer than to hang by th' walls,
I must be ript: to pieces with me: oh,
Mens vows are womens traitors.—All good Seeming
By thy revolt, oh husband, shall be thought
Put on for villany: not born, where't grows;
But worn, a bait for ladies.

Pis.
Madam, hear me—

Imo.
True honest men being heard, like false Æneas,
Were in his time thought false: and Sinon's Weeping
Did scandal many a holy tear; took pity
From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus,
Wilt lay the leven to all proper men;
Goodly, and gallant, shall be false and perjur'd,
From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest,
Do thou thy master's bidding: when thou seest him,
A little witness my obedience. Look!
I draw the sword my self, take it, and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart;
Fear not, 'tis empty of all things, but grief;
Thy master is not there; who was, indeed,
The riches of it. Do his Bidding, strike;
Thou may'st be valiant in a better cause,
But now thou seem'st a coward.

Pis.
Hence, vile instrument!
Thou shalt not damn my hand.

Imo.
Why, I must die;
And if I do not by thy hand, thou art
No servant of thy master's. 'Gainst self-slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine,
That cravens my weak hand: come, here's my heart—
(Something's afore't—soft, soft, we'll no defence; [Opening her breast.
Obedient as the scabbard!—What is here?
The Scriptures of the loyal Leonatus
All turn'd to Heresie? away, away, [Pulling his letters out of her bosom.

Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more
Be stomachers to my heart: thus may poor fools
Believe false teachers: tho' those, that are betray'd,
Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus,
That set my disobedience 'gainst the King,
And mad'st me put into contempt the suits
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find,
It is no act of common passage, but
A strain of rareness: and I grieve my self,
To think, when thou shalt be dis-edg'd by her
Whom now thou tir'st on, how thy memory
Will then be pang'd by me.—Pr'ythee, dispatch;
The lamb entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife?
Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding,
When I desire it too.

Pis.
O gracious lady!
Since I receiv'd command to do this business,
I have not slept one wink.

Imo.
Do't, and to bed then.

Pis.
I'll break mine eye-balls first.

Imo.
Ah, wherefore then
Didst undertake it? why hast thou abus'd
So many miles, with a pretence? this place?
Mine action? and thine own? our horses labour?
The time inviting thee? the perturb'd Court,
For my being absent? whereunto I never
Purpose Return. Why hast thou gone so far,
To be unbent, when thou hast ta'en thy stand,
Th' elected deer before thee?

Pis.
But to win time
To lose so bad employment, in the which
I have consider'd of a course; good lady,
Hear me with patience.

Imo.
Talk thy tongue weary, speak.
I've heard, I am a strumpet; and mine ear
(Therein false struck) can take no greater wound,
Nor tent to bottom That. But, speak.

Pis.
Then, Madam,

I thought, you would not back again.

Imo.
Most like,
Bringing me here to kill me.

Pis.
Not so neither;
But if I were as wise as honest, then
My purpose would prove well; it cannot be,
But that my master is abus'd; some villain,
And singular in his art, hath done you Both
This cursed injury.

Imo.
Some Roman Curtezan—

Pis.
No, on my life.
I'll give him notice you are dead, and send him
Some bloody sign of it: for 'tis commanded,
I should do so. You shall be miss'd at Court,
And that will well confirm it.

Imo.
Why, good fellow,
What shall I do the while? where bide? how live?
Or in my life what comfort, when I am
Dead to my husband?

Pis.
If you'll back to th' Court—

Imo.
No Court, no Father; nor no more ado
With that harsh, noble, simple, Nothing, Cloten:
That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me
As fearful as a siege.

Pis.
If not at Court,
Then not in Britaine must you bide.

Imo.
Where then?
Hath Britaine all the Sun that shines? Day, night,
Are they not but in Britaine? I'th' world's volume
Our Britaine seems as of it, but not in it;
In a great pool, a swan's nest. Pr'ythee, think,
There's living out of Britaine.

Pis.
I'm most glad,
You think of other place: th' Ambassador,
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven
To morrow. (34) ^note

That, which, t'appear it self, must not yet be,
But by self-danger; you should tread a course
Pretty, and full of view; yea, haply, near
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,
That though his actions were not visible,
Report should render him hourly to your ear,
As truly as he moves.

Imo.
Oh! for such means,
(Though peril to my modesty, not death on't)
I would adventure.

Pis.
Well then, here's the point:
You must forget to be a woman; change
Command into obedience; fear and niceness,
(The handmaids of all women, or, more truly,
Woman its pretty self,) to waggish courage;
Ready in gybes, quick-answer'd, sawcy, and
As quarrellous as the weazel: (35) ^note

Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein
You made great Juno angry.

Imo.
Nay, be brief:
I see into thy end, and am almost
A man already.

Pis.
First, make your self but like one.
Fore-thinking this, I have already fit,
('Tis in my cloak-bag) doublet, hat, hose, all
That answer to them. Would you in their serving,
And with what imitation you can borrow
From youth of such a season, 'fore noble Lucius
Present your self, desire his service, (36) ^note

Imo.
Thou'rt all the comfort
The Gods will diet me with. Pr'ythee, away.
There's more to be consider'd; but we'll even
All that good time will give us. This attempt

I'm soldier to, and will abide it with
A Prince's courage. Away, I pr'ythee.

Pis.
Well, Madam, we must take a short farewel;
Lest, being miss'd, I be suspected of
Your carriage from the Court. My noble Mistress,
Here is a box; I had it from the Queen,
What's in't is precious: if you're sick at sea,
Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram of this
Will drive away distemper—To some shade,
And fit you to your manhood; may the Gods
Direct you to the best!

Imo.
Amen: I thank thee. [Exeunt, severally.

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