Cymb.
Noble old Man, and you most worthy pair,
That Heav'n has made preserver of my Honour,
Let me embrace you: Yet is there a Fourth,
That in my tide of Thanks deserves large share.
He that bestrid me, gasping on the ground,
And like stern Ajax, with his shining Buckler,
Secur'd my Life from Storms of Roman Fury,
Where is he, that I may unclew my grateful Heart,
To pay the Debts I owe him?

Bellar.
Since his last Sally he has not been seen,
Though we have search'd among the Dead and Living,
And much I fear he's lost.

Cymb.
A Kingdom were too small to buy his Virtue.

Lucius.
Now great Cymbeline,
I conjure thee by thy Fortune, grant me a Request:
Let my poor Boy be ransom'd;—never Master had
A Page so kind, so dutious, diligent,
So modestly affected to his Master,—nor
So unwearied in his Service.—Let his Vertue joyn
With my Request, which I'le presume your Majesty
Will soon find in him. He is of this Countrey,
And has done no Britain harm, tho' he has
Serv'd a Roman.—Save but him, Sir,
And spare no Life besides.

Cymb.
Let me see his Face. Ha, what strange Surprize
Is this! I have seen him somewhere, methinks
His Features are familiar to me. Boy,
Thou hast look'd thy self into my Favour, live.

Lucius.
I humbly thank you Majesty.

Pallad.
It must be the Boy Fidele, I'le speak to the King. Enter Ursaces.

Cymb.
What, my Preserver?
Does he then live? You holy Powers, I thank ye:
Let me embrace thee, thou best, thou bravest man;
And that I may be grateful for thy service,
Ask what thou wilt on the King's word 'tis thine.

Ursa.
Had ever Fiend such mercy? Royal Sir,
Refer your bounty till you find my merit;
Know, I am that Ursaces whom you banish'd,
For yet you know not how much I deserve.

Cymb.
Ursaces! What miracle is this?

Eugen.
Oh Heaven!

Ursa.
He Sir? A Basilisk that wounds you to the Soul
With his contagious Aspect.—Remember Eugenia,
Your heav'nly Daughter:
Think Sir, O think upon her.

Cymb.
Ha! where is she?
Speak, speak: O doubt not but I think of her.

Ursa.
You do, you must, I know it.—Now then as the Angels
From glorious lucid Thrones, eternal Mansions,
Look down and see the damn'd wallow in horrour;
So without regret or pity look upon me,
A worser Fiend, worse damn'd, for worser Reasons:
I like a sacrilegious Thief broke open
Vertues best Temple, and from the shining Altar
Impiously stole the consecrated Vessel,
The Gods had treasur'd up for their own use.

Cymb.
My blood flows to my heart; say, dost thou mean
Her Life, her precious Life?

Ursa.
The best of Lives she lost, and by my Order.

Cymb.
Then art thou damn'd indeed.

Ursa.
Then am I damn'd indeed? O true Assertion!
And see I thus submit me to be tortur'd,
Thus fall at thy Slave's feet, and beg for justice.
Be dark, thou Sun,
And be ye lesser Lights extinguish'd all:
Be Nature sick, let Shades surround the World,
And Order cease, till my Eugenia, the fair, the best Eugenia,
Be in my horrid torturing Death reveng'd.

Eugen.
Shine brighter Sun,
And all ye happy Stars glimmer for joy,
At this unlook'd for Change. Oh my dear Husband!
Here is thy Wife, here is Eugenia;
Once more receive me as the gift of Heaven.

Ursa.
Oh my Souls Joy! Canst thou e're pardon me?
Canst thou forget?

Eugen.
Heaven knows, with all my heart;
But let me beg you doubt my Faith no more.

Ursa.
If I do, may Heav'n forsake me ever,
And thou my better Genius cease to guide me.

Cymb.
Has Love so blinded thee thou hast forgot me?
Dost thou not know thy Father?

Eugen.
O my Lord!
So thrive my Soul as in my best of Duty
My heart is vow'd to you: Pray pardon me.

Cymb.
Let this declare I do. Enter Pisanio, Clarinna.

Pisan.
Where, where's my Lord Ursaces? lead me to him.

Ursa.
Ha! His Eyes lost, and for my sake I fear:
Speak good old Friend, whose cruel deed was this?

Pisan.
'Twas Cloten's; but if you love me, do not pity me:
For this was I ordain'd, and well can bear it.
Where is the Princess? let me kiss her Hand.

Eugen.
Come not near me, Murderer:
Thou left'st me in the Desart, and gavest me Poyson.

Pisan.
Poyson? May then the swift Lightning blast me,
If the Box I gave you was not thought by me
Of precious value; I had it from the Queen.

Eugen.
Most like it did, for I was dead a while.

Bellar.
My Boys, there was our Errour.

Pisan.
My Pity swaying over your Command, my Lord,
I had no heart to kill her.

Ursa.
'Twas heav'nly Mercy; [Embraces him.
For hadst thou done it, O what Misery,
What Hells had I endur'd?

Pisan.
I left her to Heavens Mercy in a Desart,
Where after I found Cloten and Jachimo,
Dragging my Daughter with barbarous design,
In whose defence, bold Jachimo I slew,
And then lost my Eyes by Cloten's Cruelty;
But what befel him afterwards I know not.

Arvir.
Then let me end the Story, I kill'd him there.

Cymb.
Heaven forbid, brave Youth:
I would not thy good Deed should be rewarded
With a fatal Sentence; prithee deny't agen.

Arvir.
Sir, I spoke it, and I did it.

Cymb.
He was a Prince.

Arvir.
A most uncivil one.

Cymb.
Bind the Offendor, and take him from our presence.

Bellar.
Nay then stay Sir, hear me speak;
First pay me for the breeding of your Sons.

Cymb.
Breeding my Sons?

Bellar.
Perhaps I am too bold: Thus bow my Knee then,
And e're I rise I will prefer these two;
Then spare not the old Man. Mighty Sir,
These two young Gentlemen that call me Father,
And think they are my Sons sprung from your loyns,
To you are debtors for their Beings.

Cymb.
Me?

Bellar.
To you Sir; you are their Parent,
Their Nurse Euriphele,
Whom I with Gold corrupted, stole these Children,
By which I thought my self reveng'd for Banishment:
But now they'r yours agen, and I must lose
Two of the best Companions in the World;
All blessing from the kind and bounteous Heav'ns,
Fall on their heads like Dew; for they are worthy
To inlay Heaven like Stars.

Cymb.
Welcome, welcome,
Ye Pillars of my Age.—O my Eugenia,
Thou hast lost by this a Kingdom!

Eugen.
No, my Lord,
I have got two Worlds by it.

Cymb.
I'le have no sadness now, this is a day of Joy; [Prisoners freed.
The Pris'ners shall be freed, our Enemies pardon'd,
The Streets of Ludds-Town shall with Bonfires shine,
And all the Temples smoak with Sacrifices.
Thou art my Brother, so I hold thee ever. [Embraces Bell.

Pallad:
Our Actions, Royal Sir, shall still declare,
We will not shame our Births.

Arvir.
Tho' bred up in a Cave,
Our Thoughts were high as Palaces, and our Souls
Soar'd still above our level: For our Valours,
Let 'em be try'd, and if we flinch in Battel,
Then let some Hero of the bloody Field
Defame and call us Slaves, not Sons to Cymbeline.

Cymb.
You are my Nerves, my Sinews, and my Age
Is firmer now than Youth. Valiant Ursaces,
Thou too art of our Blood, and by Eugenia
Claim'st a full part: But O beware of Jealousie,
That worst of Passions, cherish'd by the blood,
And nourish'd by destruction! For what's past,
Let it be all forgotten.—Love Eugenia;
The Gods have link'd your Destinies together,
Then now receive her from a Father's hand.

Ursa.
How like the Accent of some pitying God?
The King then spoke:
I swear you have outdone the Deities,
Giv'n me the brightest Jewel of Perfection.
O my fair Love! Was ever Joy like mine?
Did ever Raptures touch a Heart so nearly,
Or shoot with so much fierceness through the Soul?
The excess on't is so great, sure it will kill me.
Thus as some wounded Hero,
That where most danger was, press'd forward still,
At last his Life owes to Physicians skill:
So Love, the bless'd Physician of the Mind,
Heals all my Griefs, immortal Joys I find,
And Heaven on Earth, whilst my Eugenia's kind.

THE EPILOGUE.
Our next new Play, if this Mode hold in vogue,
Shall be half Prologue, and half Epilogue.
The way to please you, is easie if we knew't,
A Jigg, a Song, a Rhyme or two will do't,
When you'r i'th' vein: and sometimes a good Play
Strangely miscarries, and is thrown away.
That this is such our Poet dares not think,
For what displeases you's a waste of Ink:
Besides this Play was writ nine years ago,
And how Times alter, Ladies you best know;
Many then, fair and courted, I dare say,
Act half as out of Fashion, as our Play.
Besides if you'd consider't well, you'd find,
Y' have altered since ten thousand times, your mind;
And if your humours do so often vary,
These in our Comedy must need miscarry;
For as you change, each Poet moves his Pen,
They take from you the Characters of Men.
The Wit they write, the Valour, and the Love,
Are all but Copies, of what you approve.
Our's follow'd the same Rule, but does confess,
The love and humour of that seasonless.
And every Artist knows that Copies fall,
For th'most part, short of their Original.

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