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 rhime.

Lord.
Farewel; you are angry. [Exit.

Post.
Still going?—This is a lord! O noble misery!
To be i' the field, and ask, what news, of me!
To-day, how many would have given their honours
To have sav'd their carcasses? took heel to do't,
And yet died too? ^{9 note}

Here made by the Roman; ^{2 note}great the answer be
Britons 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^{3 note}
,
^{4 note}

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 the king.

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, and Roman captives. The captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a gaoler: after which, all go out. SCENE IV. A prison. Enter Posthumus, and two Gaolers.

1 Gaol.
^{5 note}You shall not now be stolen, you have locks upon you;
So, graze, as you find pasture.

2 Gaol.
Ay, or a 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' the gout; since he had rather
Groan so in perpetuity, than be cur'd
By the sure physician, death; who is the key
To 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 am sorry?
So children temporal 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: ^{6 note}

If of 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 these ^{7 note}cold bonds. O Imogen!
I'll speak to thee in silence. [He sleeps.

^{8 note}

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 then (as men report,
    Thou orphan's father art)
Thou should'st have been, and shielded him
    From this earth-vexing smart.

Moth.
Lucina lent not me her aid,
    But took me in my throes;
^{9 note}

Sici.
Great nature, like his ancestry,
    Moulded the stuff so fair,
That he deserv'd the praise o' the 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 mock'd,
    To be exil'd, and thrown
From Leonati' seat, and cast
    From her his dearest one,
  Sweet Imogen?

Sici.
Why did you suffer Iachimo,
    Slight thing of Italy,
To taint his nobler heart and brain
    With needless jealousy;
And to become the geck and scorn
    O' the other's villainy?

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 chrystal 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 the shining synod of the rest,
    Against thy deity.

2 Broth.
Help, Jupiter; or we appeal,
    And from thy justice fly. Jupiter descends^{1 note} 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
  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 chrystalline. [Ascends.

Sici.
He came in thunder; his celestial 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^{2 note}
, and ^{3 note}

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 grandsire, and begot
A father to me: and thou hast created
A mother, and two brothers: But (O 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? O, rare one!
Be not, as is 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 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, Britain be fortunate, and flourish in peace and plenty.

^{4 note}

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}

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^{1 note} of heaviness: O! of this contradiction you shall now be quit.—O, the charity of a penny cord! it sums up thousands in a trice: you have no true ^{2 note}debitor 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.

Gaol.

Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the tooth-ach: 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 take upon yourself that, which I am sure you do not know;

or ^{3 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 call'd 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, ^{4 note}

5 ^note. SCENE V 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. Woe is my heart,
That the poor soldier, that so richly fought,
Whose rags sham'd gilded arms, whose naked breast
Stept before targe of proof, cannot be found:
He shall be happy that can find him, if
Our grace can make him so.

Bel.
I never saw
Such noble fury in so poor a thing;
Such precious deeds in ^{6 note}

But beggary and poor looks.

Cym.
No tidings of him?

Pis.
He hath been search'd among the dead and living,
But no trace of him.

Cym.
To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward; which I will add
To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain, [To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.
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 are honest.

Cym.
Bow your knees:
Arise my knights o' the battle^{7 note}; 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'the 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 medicine life may be prolong'd, yet death
Will seize the doctor too.—How ended she?

Cor.
With horror, madly dying, like her life;
Which, being cruel to the world, concluded
Most cruel to herself. What she confess'd,
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, ling'ring,
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 the 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, O my daughter!
That it was folly in me, thou may'st say,
And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all! Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prisoners; Posthumus behind, and Imogen.
Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute; that
The Britons 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 ourself 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 cold, have threaten'd
Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be call'd ransom, 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 entreat; My boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ransom'd: never master had
A page so kind, so duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occasions, true,
^{8 note}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 Briton harm,

Though he have serv'd a Roman: save him, sir,
And spare no blood beside.

Cym.
I have surely seen him;
His ^{9 note}favour is familiar to me:—Boy,
Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace, and art
Mine own. I know not why, wherefore, I 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.

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 itself.

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 perplex'd?

Cym.
What wouldst 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 ey'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. [Cymbeline and Imogen walk aside.

Bel.
Is not this boy reviv'd from death?

Arv.
^{1 note}

Guid.
The same dead thing alive.

Bel.
Peace, peace! see further; he eyes us not; forbear;
Creatures may be alike: were't he, I am sure
He would have spoke to us.

Guid.
But we saw him dead.

Bel.
Be silent; let's see further.

Pis.
It is my mistress: [Aside.
Since she is living, let the time run on,
To good, or bad. [Cymb. and Imogen come forward.

Cym.
Come, stand thou by our side;
Make thy demand aloud.—Sir, step you forth; [To Iachimo.
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? [Aside.

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 am glad to be constrain'd to utter that which
Torments me to conceal. By villainy
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. Wilt thou 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
^{2 note}

Cym.
My daughter! what of her? Renew thy strength:
I had 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, (O, '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
For beauty that made barren the swell'd boast
Of him that best could speak: ^{3 note}

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 the 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 wager'd with him
Pieces of gold, 'gainst this which then he wore
Upon his honour'd finger, to attain
In suit the place of his 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^{4 note}


Of Phœbus' wheel; and might so safely, had it
Been all the worth of his car. Away to Britain
Post I in this design: Well may you, sir,
Remember me at court, where I was taught
Of 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; ^{5 note}averring notes
Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet,
(O, 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!—Ah me, most credulous fool,

Egregious murderer, thief, any thing
That's due to all the villains past, in being,
To come!—O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,
Some upright justicer^{6 note}

Imo.
Peace, my lord; hear, hear—

Post.
Shall's have a play of this? Thou scornful page,
There lie thy part. [Striking her, she falls.

Pis.
O, gentlemen, help
Mine, and your mistress—O, 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 ^{8 note}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: dangerous fellow, hence!
Breathe not where princes are.

Cym.
The tune of Imogen!

Pis.
Lady, the gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if
That box 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.
O gods!—
I left out one thing which the queen confess'd,
Which must approve thee honest: If Pisanio
Have, said she, given 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 cease
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.

Imo.
Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?

^{2 note}

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^{1 note}

Imo.
Your blessing, sir. [Kneeling.

Bel.
Though you did love this youth, I blame you not;
You had a motive for't. [To Guiderius and Arviragus.

Cym.
My tears, that fall,
Prove holy water on thee! Imogen,
Thy mother's dead.

Imo.
I am sorry for't, my lord.

Cym.
O, 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 troth. 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 was gone,
It was my instant death: By accident,
I had a feigned letter of my master's
Then in my pocket; which directed him
To seek her 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 have spoke it, and I did it.

Cym.
He was a prince.

Guid.
A most incivil one: The wrongs he did me
Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me
With language that would make me spurn the sea,
If it could 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 am sorry for thee:
By thine own tongue thou art condemn'd, and must
Endure our law: Thou art 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 thyself; 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,
^{3 note}

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 of us are as good
As I have given out him.—My sons, I must,
For my 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 had'st, great king, a subject, who
Was call'd Belarius.

Cym.
What of him? he is
A banish'd traitor.

Bel.
He it is, that hath
^{4 note}

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;
And let it be confiscate all, so soon
As I have receiv'd it.

Cym.
Nursing of my sons?

Bel.
I am too blunt, and saucy: 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:
^{5 note}

(For such, and so they are) these twenty years
Have I train'd up: those arts they have, as I
Could put into them; my breeding was, sir, as
Your highness 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, gracious sir,
Here are your sons again; and I must lose
Two of the sweet'st companions in the world:—
The benediction of these covering heavens
Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy
To inlay heaven with stars.

Cym.
^{6 note}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 Polydore,
Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius:
This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus,
Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lap'd
In a most curious mantle, wrought by the 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 natural stamp:
It was wise nature's end in the donation,
To be his evidence now.

Cym.
O, what am I
A mother to the birth of three? Ne'er mother
Rejoic'd deliverance more:—Blest may you be^{7 note},
That, after this strange starting from your orbs,
You may reign in them now!—O Imogen,
Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.

Imo.
No, my lord;
I have got two worlds by't.—O my gentle brothers,
Have we thus met? O never say hereafter,
But I am truest speaker: you call'd me brother,
When I was but your sister; I you brothers,
^{8 note}

Cym.
Did you e'er meet?

Arv.
Ay, my good lord.

Guid.
And at first meeting lov'd;
Continued 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 ^{9 note}

^{1 note}

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.
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 you 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:
The power that I have on you, is to spare you;
The malice towards you, to forgive you: Live,
And deal with others better.

Cymb.
Nobly doom'd:
We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law;
Pardon's the word to all.

Arv.
You holp 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^{9 note}
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^{1 note}



: let him shew
His skill in the construction.

Luc.
Philarmonus,—

Sooth.
Here, my good lord.

Luc.
Read, and declare the meaning.

Soothsayer 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, Britain be fortunate, and flourish in peace and plenty.

Cym.
This hath some seeming.

Sooth.
The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,
Personates thee: and thy lopt branches point
Thy two sons forth: who, by Belarius stolen,
For many years thought dead, are now reviv'd,
To the majestick cedar join'd; whose issue
Promises Britain peace and plenty.

Cym.
Well,
^{2 note}
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 heaven's justice,9Q1076 (both on her, and hers)
Hath lay'd 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 battle, at this instant
Is full accomplish'd: For the Roman eagle,
From south to west on wing soaring aloft,
Lessen'd herself, and in the beams o' the sun
So vanish'd: which fore-shew'd, our princely eagle,
The imperial Cæsar, should again unite
His favour with the radiant Cymbeline,
Which shines here in the west.

Cym.
Laud we the gods;
And let our crooked smokes 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 ratify; 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. ^note

A SONG, sung by Guiderius and Arviragus over Fidele; supposed to be dead. [secondary verse]

By Mr. William Collins.

1.
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb,
  Soft maids, and village hinds shall bring
Each op'ning sweet, of earliest bloom,
  And rifle all the breathing spring.

2.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
  To vex with shrieks this quiet grove:
But shepherd lads assemble here,
  And melting virgins own their love.

3.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
  No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
  And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

4.
The red-breast oft at ev'ning hours
  Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,
  To deck the ground where thou art laid.

5.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
  In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or midst the chace on ev'ry plain,
  The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

6.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
  For thee the tear be duly shed:
Belov'd, 'till life could charm no more;
  And mourn'd 'till pity's self be dead.

Previous section