1 Gaol.
^{8 note}You shall not now be stoll'n, you've locks upon you;
So, graze, as you find pasture.

2 Gaol.
Ay, or stomach. [Exeunt Gaolers.

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; ^{9 note}

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 ^{1 note}cold bonds. Oh Imogen!
I'll speak to thee in silence.— [He sleeps. ^{2 note}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 lies 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 aught 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 shouldst have been, and shielded him
  From his earth-vexing smart.

Moth.
Lucina lent not me her aid,
  But took me in my throes;
^{3 note}

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 fruitful object be
In eye of Imogen, that best
  Could deem his dignity?

Moth.
With marriage wherefore 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 jealousy,

And to become the greek 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.

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 fly. 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 trials 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 [Jupiter 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
His radiant roof. Away! and to be blest
Let us with care perform his great behest. [Vanish.

Post. [waking.]
Sleep, thou hast been a grandfire, 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 sleep'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.

Gaol.

Come, Sir, are you ready for death?

Post.

Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.

Gaol.

Hanging is the word, Sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook'd.

Post.

So if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.

Gaol.

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, ^{5 note}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 ^{6 note}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 acquitance follows.

Post.

I am merrier to die, than thou art to live.

Gaol.

Indeed, Sir, he that sleeps, feels not the tooth-ache: 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.

Gaol.

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 yourself6Q0240 that, which, I am sure, you do not know; or ^{7 note}
jump 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.

Gaol.

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.

Mes.

Knock off his manacles. Bring your prisoner to the King.

Post.

Thou bring'st good news; I am called to be made free.

Gaol.

I'll be hang'd then.

Post.

Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.

Gaol.

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 gaolers and gallowses; I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't.

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