Cym.
Now say, what would Augustus Cæsar with us?

Luc.
When Julius Cæsar, whose remembrance yet
Lives in Mens Eyes, and will to Ears and Tongues
Be Theam, and hearing ever, was in this Britain,
And conquer'd it, Cassibelan thine Uncle,
Famous in Cæsar's Praises, no whit less
Than in his Feats deserving it for him
And his Succession, granted Rome a Tribute,
Yearly three thousand Pounds; which by thee lately
Is left untender'd.

Queen.
And to kill the marvail,
Shall be so ever.

Clot.
There be many Cæsars,
E'er such another Julius: Britain's a World
By it self, and we will nothing pay
For wearing our own Noses.

Queen.
That opportunity
Which then they had to take from's, to resume
We have again; remember, Sir, my Liege,
The Kings your Ancestors, together with
The natural Bravery of your Isle, which stands
As Neptune's Park ribb'd, and pal'd in
With Oaks unskaleable, and roaring Waters,
With Sand that will not bear your Enemies Boats,
But suck them up to'th'Top-mast. A kind of Conquest
Cæsar made here, but made not here his brag

Of, came, and saw, and overcame; with shame,
The first that ever touch'd him, he was carried
From off our Coast, twice beaten; and his Shipping,
Poor ignorant Baubles, on our terrible Seas,
Like Egg-shells, mov'd upon their Surges, crack'd
As easily 'gainst our Rocks. For Joy whereof,
The fam'd Cassibelan, who was once at point,
Oh giglet Fortune! to master Cæsar's Sword,
Made Lud's-Town with rejoicing Fires bright,
And Britains strut with Courage.

Clot.

Come, there's no more Tribute to be paid. Our Kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no more such Cæsars, other of them may have crook'd Noses, but to owe such strait Arms, none.

Cym.

Son, let your Mother end.

Clot.

We have yet many among us, can gripe as hard as Cassibelan, I do not say I am one; but I have a hand. Why Tribute? Why should we pay Tribute? If Cæsar can hide the Sun from us with a Blanket, or put the Moon in his Pocket, we will pay him Tribute for Light; else, Sir, no more Tribute, pray you now.

Cym.
You must know,
'Till the injurious Romans did extort
This Tribute from us, we were free. Cæsar's Ambition,
Which swell'd so much, that it did almost stretch
The sides o'th' World, against all Colour here,
Did put the Yoak upon's; which to shake off
Becomes a warlike People, whom we reckon
Our selves to be; we do. Say then to Cæsar,
Our Ancestor was that Mulmutius, which
Ordain'd our Laws, whose use the Sword of Cæsar
Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise,
Shall by the Power we hold be our good deed,
Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made our Laws,
Who was the first of Britain, which did put
His Brows within a golden Crown, and call'd
Himself a King.

Luc.
I am sorry, Cymbeline,
That I am to pronounce Augustus Cæsar,
Cæsar that hath more Kings his Servants, than
Thy self Domestick Officers, thine Enemy.

Receive it from me then. War, and Confusion
In Cæsar's Name pronounce I 'gainst thee: Look
For Fury, not to be resisted. Thus defy'd,
I thank thee for my self.

Cym.
Thou art welcome, Caius,
Thy Cæsar Knighted me; my Youth I spent
Much under him: Of him, I gather'd Honour,
Which he, to seek of me again, perforce,
Behooves me keep at utterance. I am perfect,
That the Pannonians and Dalmatians, for
Their Liberties are now in Arms: A Precedent
Which not to read, would shew the Britains cold:
So Cæsar shall not find them.

Luc.

Let Proof speak.

Clot.

His Majesty bids you Welcome. Make Pastime with us a Day, or two, or longer: If you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our Salt-water Girdle: If you beat us out of it, it is yours: If you fall in the Adventure, our Crows shall fare the better for you: And there's an end.

Luc.

So, Sir.

Cym.
I know your Master's Pleasure, and he mine:
All the Remain, is welcome. [Exeunt. Enter Pisanio reading of a Letter.

Pis.
How? of Adultery? Wherefore write you not
What Monsters her accuse? Leonatus!
Oh Master, what a strange Infection
Is fall'n into thy Ear? What false Italian,
As poisonous tongu'd, as handed, hath prevail'd
On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No,
She's punish'd for her Truth; and undergoes
More Goddess-like, than Wife-like, such Assaults
As would take in some Virtue. Oh my Master,
Thy Mind to her, is now as low, as were
Thy Fortunes. How? That I should Murther her,
Upon the Love, and Truth, and Vows, which I
Have made to thy Command!—I her!—Her Blood!
If it be so, to do good Service, never
Let me be counted serviceable. How look I,
That I should seem to lack Humanity,
So much as this Fact comes to? Do't—the Letter [Reading.

That I have sent her, by her own Command,
Shall give the Opportunity. Oh damn'd Paper!
Black as the Ink that's on thee: Senseless Bauble!
Art thou a Fœdarie for this act; thou look'st
So Virgin-like without? Lo here she comes. Enter Imogen.
I am ignorant in what I am commanded.

Imo.
How now, Pisanio?

Pis.
Madam, here is a Letter from my Lord.

Imo.
Who! thy Lord? that is my Lord Leonatus?
Oh, learn'd indeed were that Astronomer
That knew the Stars, as I his Characters,
He'd lay the Future open. You good Gods,
Let what is here contain'd, relish of Love,
Of my Lord's Health, of his Content, yet not
That we two are asunder, let that grieve him;
Some Griefs are medicinable, that is one of them,
For it doth physick Love, of his Content,
All but in that. Good Wax, thy leave: blest be
You Bees that make these Locks of Counsel. Lovers,
And Men in dangerous Bonds pray not alike.
Though Forfeitures you cast in Prison, yet
You clasp young Cupid's Tables: good News, Gods. Reading.

Jvstice, and your Father's Wrath, should he take me in his Dominion, could not be so cruel to me, as you, oh the dearest of Creatures, would even renew me with your Eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria at Milford-Haven: What your own, Love, will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all Happiness, that remains Loyal to his Vow, and your increasing in Love,

Leonatus Posthumus.

To th' smothering of the Sense, how far it is
To this same blessed Milford. And by th' way
Tell me how Wales was made so Happy, as
T' inherit such a Haven. But first of all,
How may we steal from hence: And for the Gap
That we shall make in time, from our hence-going,
And our return, to excuse—but first, how get hence.
Why should Excuse be born or e'er begot?
We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak,
How many Score of Miles may we well ride
'Twixt Hour and Hour?

Pis.
One Score 'twixt Sun, and Sun,
Madam's enough for you: And too much too.

Imo.
Why, one that rode to's Execution, Man,
Could never go so slow: I have heard of riding Wagers,
Where Horses have been nimbler than the Sands
That run i' th' Clocks behalf. But this is Foolery,
Go, bid my Woman feign a Sickness, say
She'll home to her Father, and provide me presently
A riding Suit: No costlier than would fit
A Franklin's Houswife.

Pis.
Madam, you're best consider.

Imo.
I see before me, Man, nor here, nor here,
Nor what ensues but have a Fog in them,
That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee,
Do as I bid thee; there's no more to say;
Accessible is none but Milford way. [Exeunt.

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