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 ^{8 note}their impious Turbants 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, heaven!

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,
^{9 note}This 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, ^{1 note}

Guid.
Out of your proof you speak; we, poor, unfledg'd,
Have never wing'd from view o'th' nest; nor know not
What air's from home. Haply, 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
^{2 note}To stride a limit.

Arv.
^{3 note}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 quire, 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'sy 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, these twenty years,
This rock and these demeasnes 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: and tho' train'd up thus meanly
^{4 note}

In simple and low things, to prince it, much
Beyond the trick of others. This Paladour,
The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, 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 Cadwal,
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 ^{5 note}

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