Enter Bellarius.
My meditation hath misguided me,
And I have miss'd the boys. They'll not return,
Tho' all the elements should be at war,
'Till darkness sends 'em home. O Cymbeline,
When thou shalt see thy royal progeny,
(As I do mean with the first 'vantage to
Render thee back these youths) thou shalt confess

Thy loss was gain, and thank calamity.
Hah! who are these? Enter Philario and Imogen.
What chance cou'd wind their steps
Thus far from all society? 'tis strange!

IMOGEN. (seeing him)
O look, Philario, look—what rev'rend figure
Is this approaches? In his visage sits
The treasur'd wisdom of an hundred years—
The sages of old time are pictur'd thus;
Accost him, good Philario; for his presence
Awes my unskilful heart.

PHILARIO.
Grave hermit, hail!
Pardon, old man, our ignorant intrusion,
Upon your venerable solitude.
I, and my nephew here, are bound for Milford,
And chance wide straying from our way to night,
Have light upon your lonely habitation.

BELLARIUS.
Thou hast a gracious favour—for this youngling,
The dimpled God that holds the cup to Jove
Is second to him.—You are welcome, sirs—
If you can shape your fancy to your needs,
The wholesome viands of a homely board,
That bloated luxury ne'er cater'd to,
Shall be most freely yours. Your names, beseech you?

PHILARIO.
Philario, sir—this gentle youths' Fidele.—

BELLARIUS.
Why once more welcome—this low roof's your home,
While 'tis worth owning.—I've two sons, whose age
Will yoke in followship with yours, Fidele—
Philario mates with me—tarry awhile,
And purge your lungs of the foul air o'th' city,
Or of the court, for that is sickly too—
O! I have liv'd to make the pop'lous world
A stock for laughter.

IMOGEN.
Uncle, we have found
Delightful lodging, and a gracious host—
This good old father's greeting sooths my spirit,
Faint with this long day's march.

PHILARIO.
Look here, Fidele—
I have a cordial of especial proof,
I pray thee drink it off—it is a drug
That three times hath my father's life redeem'd
From the arrest of death. It has more virtue
Than I shall tell you now. (Aside.)

IMOGEN. drinks.
Uncle, I thank you.

BELLARIUS.
Here come my boys.—Sirs, stand aside awhile;
How will they take this novelty? they ne'er
Saw mortal but their mother, and myself.

Enter Palador and Cadwal.
You, Cadwal, are best woodman, and are nam'd,
The master of the feast—hah! what are these?
Go not near, Cadwal—they are Gods that come
In visitation to our hermitage—
The eldest is God Pan; the other seems
Like swift-leg'd Mercury, or the God of Love,
Drest in his mother's smiles.—Down, Cadwal, down
On knees of adoration, and beseech
Propitious aspect from their deities—
Hear us immortal pow'rs.— (Kneels.)

BELLARIUS.
Rise up my boys:
These are but mortals like ourselves, made up
Of the same stuff as we—when we have supp'd,
We will enlarge our conference.

PALADOR.
Are they men?
By the puissant Jove they're noble ones—
I long to commune with 'em—for that youth
My heart is high in sudden palpitation—
Methinks I love him neither more nor less,
Cadwal, than I do thee.

CADWAL.
Ev'n so says Cadwal.

IMOGEN.
Uncle, I have a tender feeling too,
That yearns on these fair strangers—I had once
Two brothers, whom the hand of early fate

Snatch'd from the world—If they had liv'd, I think
They had been like this gentle pair.—Sweet youths,
May I not call you brothers?

PALADOR.
Ay, most freely.
And, sir, if you are uncle to our brother,
You stand in kin to us—I pray, good father,
Let him be tutor to us: we would learn
The mystery of life; the art of war;
The policy of kings; the rules of states;
Will you instruct us? we are ign'rant yet
What drawing breath is good for.

PHILARIO.
These young plants
Are of the kindest growth my eyes e're saw—
Why, who would dream this barren desart here
A nursery of demi-gods?

BELLARIUS.
Enough;
Vice is the child of praise; my boys are such
As nature made them, and she made 'em not
For art to marr; but let us in to supper—
Our appetites shall make what's homely, sav'ry:
We eat for health, and rise before the sun,
Silvers the mountain shrubs.—Come, boys conduct
Your new compeer.—Philario, you are mine.—

PALADOR.
The night to th'owl, and morn to th' lark less welcome. [Exeunt into the cave. End of the Second Act.

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