Lewis Theobald [1733], The works of Shakespeare: in seven volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected; With notes, Explanatory and Critical; By Mr. Theobald (Printed for A. Bettesworth and C. Hitch [and] J. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11201].
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ACT V.
Scene 1
SCENE, a Field between the British and Roman Camps.
Enter Posthumus, with a bloody handkerchief.
Posthumus.
Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wisht,
Thou should'st be colour'd thus. You married Ones,
If each of you would take this course, how many
Must murther wives much better than themselves
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 saved
The noble Imogen to repent, and struck
Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance. But, alack,
You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love;
To have them fall no more; you some permit(48) note
To second ills with ills, each worse than other,
And make them dreaded, to the doers' thrift.—
-- 437 --
But Imogen's your own: do your best wills,
And make me blest t'obey! I am brought hither
Among th' 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'll disrobe me
Of these Italian weeds, and suit my self
As do's a Britain 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. Let me make men know
More valour in me, than my Habits shew;
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.
Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and the Roman army at one
door; and the British army at another: Leonatus
Posthumus, following like a poor soldier. They march
over, and go out. Then enter again in skirmish
Iachimo, and Posthumus; he vanquisheth and disarmeth
Iachimo, and then leaves him.
Iach.
The heaviness, and guilt, within my bosom,
Takes off my manhood; I've bely'd a lady,
The Princess of this Country; and the air on't
-- 438 --
Revengingly enfeebles me: or could this carle,
A very drudge of nature, have subdu'd me
In my profession? Knighthoods, and Honours born,
As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn;
If that thy gentry, Britain, go before
This lowt, as he exceeds our lords, the odds
Is, that we scarce are men, and you are Gods.
[Exit.
The battle continues; the Britains fly, Cymbeline is taken; then enter to his rescue, Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.
Bel.
Stand, stand; we have th' advantage of the ground;
That lane is guarded: nothing routs us, but
The villany of our fears.
Guid. Arv.
Stand, stand, and fight.
Enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britains. They rescue Cymbeline, and exeunt.
Then enter Lucius, Iachimo, and Imogen.
Luc.
Away, boy, from the troops, and save thy self;
For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such
As war were hood-wink'd.
Iach.
'Tis their fresh supplies.
Luc.
It is a day turn'd strangely. Or betimes
Let's re-inforce, or fly.
[Exeunt.
Scene 2
SCENE another Part of the Field of Battel.
Enter Posthumus, and a British lord.
Lord.
Cam'st thou from where they made the Stand?
Post.
I did.
Though you, it seems, came from the fliers.
Lord.
I did.
Post.
No blame be to you, Sir, for all was lost,
But that the heavens fought: the King himself
Of his wings destitute, the army broken,
And but the backs of Britain seen; all flying
-- 439 --
Through a straight lane; the enemy full-hearted,
Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring, having work
More plentiful, than tools to do't, struck down
Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling
Meerly through fear, that the straight Pass was damm'd
With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living
To die with lengthen'd shame.
Lord.
Where was this lane?
Post.
Close by the battel, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf,
Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,
(An honest one, I warrant,) who deserv'd
So long a breeding as his white beard came to,
In doing this for's Country. 'Thwart the lane,
He, with two striplings, (lads, more like to run
The country Base, than to commit such slaughter;
With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer
Than those for preservation cas'd, or shame,)
Made good the passage, cry'd to those that fled,
“Our Britaine's Harts die flying, not our men;(49) note
“To darkness fleet souls, that fly backwards! stand;
“Or we are Romans, and will give you That(50) note
-- 440 --
“Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save
“But to look back in frown: stand, stand.”—These three,
Three thousand confident, in act as many;
(For three performers are the file, when all
The rest do nothing;) with this word, stand, stand,
Accommodated by the place, (more charming
With their own Nobleness, which could have turn'd
A distaff to a lance) gilded pale looks;
Part, shame, part, spirit-renew'd; that some, turn'd coward
But by example, (oh, a sin in war,
Damn'd in the first beginners!) 'gan to look
The way that they did, and to grin like lions
Upon the pikes o'th' hunters. Then began
A stop i'th' chaser, a retire; anon,
A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they flie
Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles: slaves,
The strides they victors made; and now our cowards,
Like fragments in hard voyages, became
The life o'th' need; having found the back door open
Of the unguarded hearts, heav'ns, how they wound
Some slain before, some dying; some, their friends
O'er-born i'th' former wave; ten, chac'd by one,
Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty;
Those, that would die or-ere resist, are grown
The mortal bugs o'th' field.
Lord.
This was strange chance,
A narrow lane! an old man, and two boys!
Post.
Nay, do but wonder at it; you are made(51) note
Rather to wonder at the things you hear,
Than to work any. Will you rhime upon't?
-- 441 --
And vent it for a mockery? here is one:
“Two boys, and an old man, (twice a boy,) a lane,
“Preserv'd the Britains, was the Romans' bane.
Lord.
Nay, be not angry, Sir.
Post.
Lack! to what end?
Who dares not stand his foe, I'll be his friend;
For if he'll do, as he is made to do,
I know, he'll quickly fly my friendship too.
You have put me into rhymes.
Lord.
Farewel, you are angry.
[Exit.
Post.
This is a lord—oh noble misery,
To be i'th' field, and ask what news, of me!
To day, how many would have given their honours
To've sav'd their carkasses? 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:(52) note
-- 442 --
For being now a favourer to the Britain,
No more a Britain, I've resum'd 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
Here made by th' Roman; great the answer be,
Britains must take. For me, my ransom's death;
On either side I come to spend my breath;
Which neither here I'll keep, nor bear again,
But end it by some means for Imogen.
Enter two British Captains, and Soldiers.
1 Cap.
Great Jupiter be prais'd, Lucius is taken!
'Tis thought, the old man, and his sons, were angels.
2 Cap.
There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,
That gave th' affront with them.
1 Cap.
So 'tis reported;
But none of them can be found. Stand, who's there?
Post.
A Roman;—
Who had not now been drooping here, if Seconds
Had answer'd him.
2 Cap.
Lay hands on him; a dog!
A leg of Rome shall not return to tell
What crows have peck'd them here; he brags his service,
As if he were of note; bring him to th' King.
Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio,
and Roman captives. The captains present
Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to
a Goaler. After which, all go out.
-- 443 --
Scene 3
SCENE changes to a Prison.
Enter Posthumus, and two goalers.
1 Goal.
You shall not now be stoln, you've locks upon you;
So, graze, as you find pasture.
2 Goal.
Ay, or stomach.
[Exeunt Goalers.
Post.
Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way,
I think, to liberty; yet am I better
Than one that's sick o'th' gout, since he had rather
Groan so in perpetuity than be cur'd
By th' sure physician, death; who is the key
T'unbar these locks. My conscience! thou art fetter'd
More than my shanks and wrists; you good Gods, give me
The penitent instrument to pick that bolt;
Then free for ever. Is't enough, I'm sorry?
So children temp'ral fathers do appease;
Gods are more full of mercy.—Must I repent?
I cannot do it better than in gyves,
Desir'd, more than constrain'd; to satisfie,(53) note
-- 444 --
I d'off my freedom; 'tis the main part; take
No stricter Render of me, than my all.
I know, you are more clement than vile men,
Who of their broken debtors take a third,
A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again
On their abatement; that's not my desire.
For Imogen's dear life, take mine; and though
'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coin'd it;
'Tween man and man, they weigh not every stamp;
Though light, take pieces for the figure's sake;
You rather, mine being yours: and so, great Powers,
If you will take this audit, take this life,
And cancel those old bonds. Oh Imogen!
I'll speak to thee in silence.—
[He sleeps.
Solemn musick: Enter, as in an apparition, Sicilius 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 lyes sleeping.
Sici.
No more, thou thunder-master, shew
Thy spite on mortal flies:
With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,
That thy Adulteries
Rates and revenges.—
Hath my poor boy done ought but well,
Whose face I never saw?
I dy'd, whilst in the womb he stay'd,
Attending Nature's Law.
Whose father, Jove! (as men report,
Thou orphans' father art;)
Thou should'st have been, and shielded him
From his earth-vexing smart.
Moth.
Lucina lent not me her aid,
But took me in my throes;
That from me my Posthumus ript,
Came crying 'mongst his foes,
-- 445 --
A thing of pity!—
Sici.
Great Nature, like his ancestry,
Moulded the stuff so fair;
That he deserv'd the praise o'th' 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 rival object be,
In eye of Imogen, that best
Could deem his dignity?
Moth.
With marriage therefore was he mockt,
To be exil'd, and thrown
From Leonatus' seat, and cast
From her his dearest one?
Sweet Imogen!—
Sici.
Why did you suffer Iachimo,
Slight thing of Italy,
To taint his noble heart and brain
With needless jealousie:
And to become the geek and scorn
O'th' other's villany?
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' 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.
-- 446 --
Sici.
Peep through thy marble mansion, help!
Or we poor ghosts will cry
To th' shining synod of the rest,
Against thy Deity.
2 Breth.
Help, Jupiter, or we appeal,
And from thy justice flie.
Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle; he throws a thunder-bolt. The ghosts fall on their knees.
Jupit.
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. Be content,
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift:
His comforts thrive, his tryals well are spent;
Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in
Our temple was he married: rise, and fade!
He shall be lord of lady Imogen,
And happier much by his affliction made.
This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein
[Jup. drops a tablet.
Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine;
And so, away;—no farther with your din
Express impatience, lest you stir up mine;
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.
[Ascends.
Sici.
He came in thunder, his cœlestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell; the holy eagle
Stoop'd, as to foot us; his ascension is
More sweet than our blest fields; his royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak,
As when his God is pleas'd.
All.
Thanks, Jupiter!
Sici.
The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd
-- 447 --
His radiant roof: away, and to be blest
Let us with care perform his great behest.
[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, oh 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! oh rare one!
Be not, as in our fangled world, a garment
Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects
So follow, to be most unlike our Courtiers;
As good as promise.
[Reads.]
When as the lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown,
without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of
tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopt
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: (do either both, or nothing;—)
Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such
As sense cannot untie. But what it is,
The action of my life is like it, which I'll keep
If but for sympathy.
Enter Goaler.
Goal.
Come, Sir, are you ready for death?
Post.
Over-roasted rather: ready long ago.
Goal.
Hanging is the word, Sir; if you be ready
for that, you are well cookt.
Post.
So if it prove a good repast to the spectators,
the dish pays the shot.
-- 448 --
Goal.
A heavy reckoning for you, Sir; but the comfort
is, you shall be call'd 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; purse and brain, both empty,
the brain the heavier, for being too light; the purse
too light, being drawn of heaviness. Oh, of this contradiction
you shall now be quit: oh, the charity of a
penny cord, it sums up thousands in a trice; you have
no true debtor, and creditor, but it; of what's past,
is, and to come, the discharge; your neck, Sir, is
pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows.
Post.
I am merrier to die, than thou art to live.
Goal.
Indeed, Sir, he, that sleeps, feels not the toothache:
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.
Goal.
Your death has eyes in's head then; I have
not seen him so pictur'd: you must either be directed
by some that take upon them to know; or to take
upon your self that, which, I am sure, you do not know;
or lump the after-enquiry on your own peril; and
how you shall speed in your journey's-end, I think,
you'll never return to tell one.
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.
Goal.
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.
Enter a Messenger.
Mes.
Knock off his manacles, bring your prisoner
to the King.
Post.
Thou bring'st good news; I am called to be
made free.
-- 449 --
Goal.
I'll be hang'd then.
Post.
Thou shalt be then freer than a goaler: no
bolts for the dead.
[Exeunt Posthumus and Messenger.
Goal.
Unless a man would marry a gallows, and
beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet,
on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to
live, for all he be a Roman: and there be some of
them too, that die against their wills; so should I, if
I were one. I would, we were all of one mind, and
one mind good; O, there were desolation of goalers
and gallowses; I speak against my present profit,(54) note
but my wish hath a preferment in't.
[Exit.
Scene 4
SCENE, Cymbeline's Tent.
Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, and lords.
Cym.
Stand by my side, you, whom the Gods have made
Preservers of my Throne. Wo is my heart,
That the poor Soldier, that so richly fought,
(Whose rags sham'd gilded arms; whose naked breast
Stept 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(55) note
-- 450 --
Such noble fury in so poor a thing:
Such precious deeds in one that promis'd nought
But begg'ry and poor Luck.
Cym.
No tidings of him?
Pis.
He hath been search'd among the dead and living,
But no trace of him.
Cymb.
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 Arvirag.
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're honest.
Cym.
Bow your knees;
Arise my Knights o'th' battel; I create you
Companions to our person, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates.
Enter Cornelius, and Ladies.
There's business in these faces: why so sadly
Greet you our victory? you look like Romans,
And not o'th' Court of Britain.
Cor.
Hail, great King!
To sour your happiness, I must report
The Queen is dead.
Cym.
Whom worse than a physician
Would this report become? but I consider,
By med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death
Will seize the Doctor too. How ended she?
Cor.
With horror, madly dying, like her self;
-- 451 --
Who, being cruel to the world, concluded
Most cruel to her self. What she confest,
I will report, so please you: These her women
Can trip me, if I err; who, with wet cheeks,
Were present when she finish'd.
Cym.
Pr'ythee, say.
Cor.
First, she confess'd, she never lov'd you: only
Affected Greatness got by you, not you:
Married your Royalty, was wife to your Place;
Abhorr'd your person.
Cym.
She alone knew this:
And, but she spoke it dying, I would not
Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.
Cor.
Your Daughter, whom she bore in hand to love
With such integrity, she did confess,
Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,
But that her flight prevented it, she had
Ta'en off by poison.
Cym.
O most delicate fiend!
Who is't can read a woman? is there more?
Cor.
More, Sir, and worse. She did confess, she had
For you a mortal mineral; which, being took,
Should by the minute feed on life, and lingring
By inches waste you. In which time she purpos'd,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to
O'ercome you with her shew: yes, and in time,
(When she had fitted you with her craft,) to work
Her son into th' adoption of the Crown:
But failing of her end by his strange absence,
Grew shameless, desperate; open'd, in despight
Of heaven and men, her purposes: repented,
The ills she hatch'd were not effected: so
Despairing, dy'd.
Cym.
Heard you all this, her Women?
Lady.
We did, so please your Highness.
Cym.
Mine eyes
Were not in fault, for she was beautiful:
Mine ears, that heard her flattery, nor my heart,
That thought her like her Seeming. It had been vicious
To have mistrusted her. Yet, oh my daughter!
-- 452 --
That it was folly in me, thou may'st say,
And prove it in the thy feeling. Heav'n mend all!
Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prisoners; Leonatus behind, and Imogen.
Thou com'st not, Caius, now for Tribute; That
The Britains 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 our self 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 threatned
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 Britain born,
Let him be ransom'd; never master had
A page so kind, so duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occasions, true,
So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue join
With my request, which, I'll make bold, your Highness
Cannot deny: he hath done no Britain 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 thy self into my grace,
And art mine own. 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:
Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner,
The noblest ta'en.
Imo.
I humbly thank your Highness.
Luc.
I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad;
And yet I know thou wilt.
-- 453 --
Imo.
No, no, alack,
There's other work in hand; I see a thing
Bitter to me, as death; your life, good master,
Must shuffle for it self.
Luc.
The boy disdains me,
He leaves me, scorns me: briefly die their joys,
That place them on the truth of girls and boys!
Why stands he so perplext?
Cym.
What would'st thou, boy?
I love thee more and more: think more and more,
What's best to ask. 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 eye'st 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 art my good youth, my page;
I'll be thy master: walk with me, speak freely.
[Cymbel. and Imo. walk aside.
Bel.
Is not this boy reviv'd from death?
Arv.
One sand another(56) note
Not more resembles, than He th' sweet rosie lad,
Who dy'd and was Fidele. What think you?
Guid.
The same dead thing alive.
Bel.
Peace, peace, see more; he eyes us not; forbear,
Creatures may be alike: were't he, I'm sure,
He would have spoke t'us.
Guid.
But we saw him dead.
Bel.
Be silent: let's see further.
Pis.
'Tis my mistress—
[aside.
-- 454 --
Since she is living, let the time run on,
To good, or bad.
[Cymb. and Imog. come forward.
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 falshood.—On; speak to him.
Imo.
My boon is, that this gentleman may render
Of whom he had this ring.
Post.
What's that to him?
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'm glad to be constrain'd to utter what
Torments me to conceal. By villany
I got this Ring; 'twas Leonatus' jewel,
Whom thou didst banish: and (which more may grieve thee,
As it doth me) a nobler Sir ne'er liv'd
'Twixt sky and ground. Will you 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.—
Cym.
My daughter, what of her? renew thy strength;
I'ad rather thou shouldst 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, (accurs'd
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 good Posthumus—
(What should I say? he was too good to be
Where ill men were; and was the best of all
Amongst the rar'st of good ones)—sitting sadly,
Hearing us praise our Loves of Italy(57) note
-- 455 --
For Beauty, that made barren the swell'd Boast
Of him that best could speak; for Stature, laming
The shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerva,
Postures, beyond brief nature; for condition,
A shop of all the qualities, that man
Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving,
Fairness, which strikes the eye—
Cym.
I stand on fire.
Come to the matter.
Iach.
All too soon I shall,
Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly.—This Posthumus,
(Most like a noble lord in love, and one
That had a royal lover) took his hint;
And, not dispraising whom we prais'd, (therein
He was as calm as virtue) he began
His mistress' picture; which by his tongue being made,
And then a mind put in't, either our brags
Were crack'd-of kitchen-trulls, or his description
Prov'd us unspeaking sots.
Cym.
Nay, nay, to th' purpose.
Iach.
Your daughter's chastity;—there it begins:
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. He, true Knight,
No lesser of her honour confident
Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring;
And would so, had it been a carbuncle
-- 456 --
Of Phœbus' wheel; and might so safely, had it
Been all the worth of's Car. 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 villainous. Being thus quench'd
Of Hope, not Longing, mine Italian brain
'Gan in your duller Britain operate
Most vilely: for my vantage excellent;
And, to be brief, my practice so prevail'd,
That I return'd with simular proof enough
To make the noble Leonatus mad,
By wounding his belief in her renown,
With tokens thus, and thus; averring notes
Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet;
(Oh, cunning! how I got it) nay, some marks
Of secret on her person; 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! ay me, most credulous fool,
Egregious murtherer, thief, any thing
That's due to all the villains past, in Being,
To come—oh, give me cord, or knife, or poison,
Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send out
For torturers ingenious; it is I
That all th' abhorred things o'th' earth amend,
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,
That kill'd thy daughter:—villain-like, I lie;
That caus'd a lesser villain than my self,
A sacrilegious thief, to do't. The temple
Of virtue was she, yea, and she her self.—
Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set
The dogs o'th' street to bay me: every villain
Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and
Be villainy less than 'twas!—Oh Imogen!
My Queen, my life, my wife! oh Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!
Imo.
Peace, my lord, hear, hear—
Post.
Shall's have a Play of this?
-- 457 --
Thou scornful page, there lie thy part.
[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.
Pis.
How fares my mistress?
Imo.
O, get thee from my sight;
Thou gav'st me poison: dang'rous fellow, hence!
Breathe not, where Princes are.
Cym.
The tune of Imogen!
Pis.
Lady, the Gods throw stones of sulphur on me,
If what I gave you was not thought by me
A precious thing: I had it from the Queen.
Cym.
New matter still?
Imo.
It poison'd me.
Cor.
Oh Gods!
I left out one thing which the Queen confess'd,
Which must approve thee honest. If Pisanio
Have, said she, giv'n his mistress that confection,
Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv'd
As I would serve a rat.
Cym.
What's this, Cornelius?
Cor.
The Queen, Sir, very oft importun'd me
To temper poisons for her; still pretending
The satisfaction of her knowledge, only
In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs
Of no esteem; I, dreading that her purpose
Was of more danger, did compound for her
A certain stuff, which, being ta'en, would seize
The present power of life; but, in short time,
All offices of nature should again
Do their due functions. Have you ta'en of it?
Imo.
Most like I did, for I was dead.
Bel.
My boys, there was our error.—
Guid.
This is, sure, Fidele.
-- 458 --
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.
How now, my flesh? my child?
What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this act?
Wilt thou not speak to me?
Imo.
Your Blessing, Sir.
[Kneeling.
Bel.
Tho' you did love this youth, I blame you not,
You had a motive for't.
[To Guid. Arvir.
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 naught; and long of her it was,
That we meet here so strangely; but her son
Is gone, we know not how, nor where.
Pis.
My lord,
Now fear is from me, I'll speak truth. Lord Cloten,
Upon my lady's missing, came to me
With his sword drawn, foam'd at the mouth, and swore,
If I discover'd not which way she went,
It was my instant death. By accident
I had a feigned letter of my master's
Then in my pocket; which directed her
To seek him on the mountains near to Milford:
Where, in a frenzy, in my master's garments,
Which he inforc'd from me, away he posts
With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate
My lady's honour: What became of him,
I further know not.
Guid.
Let me end the story;
I slew him there.
Cym.
Marry, 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've spoke it, and I did it.
Cym.
He was a Prince.
Guid.
A most incivil one. The wrongs, he did me,
-- 459 --
Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me
With language that would make me spurn the sea,
Could it 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.
I'm sorry for thee;
By thine own tongue thou art condemn'd, and must
Endure our law: thou'rt dead.
Imo.
That headless man
I thought had been my lord.
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 thy self; and hath
More of thee merited, than a band of Clotens
Had ever scar for.—Let his arms alone;
[To the Guard.
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?
Arv.
In that he spake too far.
Cym.
And thou shalt die for't.
Bel.
We will die all three,
But I will prove, that two on's are as good
As I've giv'n out of him. My Sons, I must,
For mine own part, unfold a dangerous speech,
Though, haply, well for you.
Arv.
Your danger's ours.
Guid.
And our Good, his.
Bel.
Have at it then, by leave:
Thou hadst, great King, a Subject, who was call'd
Belarius.
Cym.
What of him? a banish'd traitor.
Bel.
He it is, that hath
Assum'd this age; indeed, a banish'd man;
I know not how, a traitor.
Cym.
Take him hence,
The whole world shall not save him.
Bel.
Not too hot:
First pay me for the nursing of thy Sons;
-- 460 --
And let it be confiscate all, so soon
As I've receiv'd it.
Cym.
Nursing of my Sons?
Bel.
I am too blunt, and sawcy; here's my knee:
Ere I arise, I will prefer my Sons,
Then spare not the old Father. 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 Belarius whom you sometime banish'd;
Your pleasure was my near offence, my punishment
It self, and all my treason: That I suffer'd,
Was all the harm I did. These gentle Princes,
(For such and so they are,) these twenty years
Have I train'd up; such arts they have, as I
Could put into them. Sir, my breeding was,
As your Grace knows. Their nurse Euriphile,
Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children
Upon my Banishment: I mov'd her to't;
Having receiv'd the punishment before,
For That which I did then. Beaten for loyalty,
Excited me to treason. Their dear loss,
The more of you 'twas felt, the more it shap'd
Unto my end of stealing them. But, 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'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.
Bel.
Be pleas'd a while—
This Gentleman, whom I call Paladour,
Most worthy Prince, as yours, is true Guiderius:
This Gentleman, my Cadwall, Arviragus,
-- 461 --
Your younger princely Son; he, Sir, was lapt
In a most curious mantle, wrought by th' hand
Of his Queen-mother, which, for more probation,
I can with ease produce.
Cym.
Guiderius 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 nat'ral 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'ast lost by this a Kingdom.
Imo.
No, my Lord:
I've 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 Brothers;
When ye were so, indeed.
Cym.
Did you e'er meet?
Arv.
Ay, my good Lord.
Guid.
And at first meeting lov'd;
Continu'd so, until we thought he died.
Cor.
By the Queen's dram she swallow'd.
Cym.
O rare instinct!
When shall I hear all through? this fierce abridgment
Hath to it circumstantial branches, which
Distinction should be rich in.—Where? how liv'd you?
And when came you to serve our Roman Captive?
How parted with your Brothers? how first met them?
(58) note
Why fled you from the Court? and whither?—These,
-- 462 --
And your three motives to the battel, with
I know not how much more, should be demanded;
And all the other Bye-dependances
From chance to chance: but not the time, nor place,
Will serve long interrogatories. See,
Posthumus anchors upon Imogen;
And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye
On him, her Brothers, me, her master; hitting
Each object with a joy. The counter-change
Is sev'rally in all. Let's quit this ground,
And smoak the Temple with our Sacrifices.
Thou art my Brother; so we'll hold thee ever.
[To Bel.
Imo.
You are my Father too, and did relieve me,
To see this gracious season!
Cym.
All o'er-joy'd,
Save these in bonds: let them be joyful too,
For they shall taste our comfort.
Imo.
My good master,
I will yet do you service.
Luc.
Happy be you!
Cym.
The forlorn Soldier, that so nobly fought,
He would have well becom'd this place, and grac'd
The thankings of a King.
Post.
'Tis I am, Sir,
The Soldier, that did company these three,
In poor Beseeming: 'twas a fitment for
The purpose I then follow'd. That I was he,
Speak, Iachimo, I had you down, and might
Have made your finish.
Iach.
I am down again:
But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,
[Kneels.
As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you,
Which I so often owe: but, your Ring first;
And here the bracelet of the truest Princess,
That ever swore her faith.
Post.
Kneel not to me:
-- 463 --
The power, that I have on you, is to spare you:
The malice tow'rds you, to forgive you. Live,
And deal with others better!
Cym.
Nobly doom'd:
We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law;
Pardon's the word to all.
Arv.
You help'd us, Sir,
As you did mean, indeed, to be our brother;
Joy'd are we, that you are.
Post.
Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome,
Call forth your Soothsayer: as I slept, methought,
Great Jupiter upon his eagle back'd,
Appear'd to me, with other sprightly shews
Of mine own kindred. When I wak'd, I found
This label on my bosom; whose containing
Is so from sense in hardness, that I can
Make no collection of it. Let him shew
His skill in the construction.
Luc.
Philarmonus,—
Sooth.
Here, my good Lord.
Luc.
Read, and declare the meaning.
[Reads.]
When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown,
without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of
tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopt
branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive,
be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall
Posthumus end his miseries, Britaine be fortunate, and
flourish in peace and plenty.
Thou, Leonatus, art the lion's whelp;
The fit and apt construction of thy name,
Being Leonatus, doth import so much:
The piece of tender air, thy virtuous Daughter,
[To Cymb.
Which we call Mollis Aer; and Mollis Aer
We term it Mulier: which Mulier, I divine,
Is this most constant wife; who, even now,
Answering the letter of the Oracle,
Unknown to you, unsought, were clipt about
With this most tender air.
Cym.
This hath some Seeming.
-- 464 --
Sooth.
The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,
Personates thee; and thy lopt branches point
Thy two Sons forth: who, by Belarius stoll'n,
For many years thought dead, are now reviv'd,
To the majestick cedar join'd; whose Issue
Promises Britaine peace and plenty.
Cym.
My peace we will begin, and, Caius Lucius,
Although the victor, we submit to Cæsar,
And to the Roman Empire; promising,
To pay our wonted tribute, from the which
We were dissuaded by our wicked Queen;
On whom heav'n's justice (both on her, and hers)
Hath laid most heavy hand.
Sooth.
The fingers of the Powers above do tune
The harmony of this peace: the vision,
Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke
Of this yet scarce-cold battel, at this instant
Is full accomplish'd. For the Roman eagle,
From South to West on wing soaring aloft,
Lessen'd her self, and in the beams o'th' Sun
So vanish'd; which fore-shew'd our princely Eagle,
Th' imperial Cæsar, should again unite
His favour with the radiant Cymbeline,
Which shines here in the West.
Cym.
Laud we the Gods!
And let the crooked smoaks 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 ratifie. 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. |
