1 Gaol.
You shall not now be stoln, 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'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 setter'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; to satisfie
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 those old Bonds. Oh Imogen!
I'll speak to thee in Silence. [He sleeps.

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, follows the two young Leonati, Brothers to Posthumus, with wounds as they died in the Wars, They circle Posthumus round as he lyes 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 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 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,
That from me was Posthumus ript,
  Came crying 'mongst his Foes.
A thing of pity.

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 Rival object be,
In Eye of Imogen, that best
  Could deem his Dignity?

Moth.
With Marriage therefore was he mockt
  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 jealousie,
And to become the geek and scorn
  O'th' others 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 flie. 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 Elizium, 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: Rife, and fade,
He shall be Lord of Lady Imogen,
And happier much by his Affliction made,
This Tablet lay upon his Breast, wherein [Jupit. 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 cloyes 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.
Sleep, thou hast been a Grandsire, and begot
A Father to me: and thou hast created
A Mother, and two Brothers. But, oh scorn!
Gone—they went from 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! Oh 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 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 brances, 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.

Gao.

Hanging is the word, Sir, if you be ready for that, you are well Cookt.

Post.

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

Gao.

A heavy reckoning for you, Sir: but the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more Tavern Bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth; you came in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, 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 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 Acquittance follows.

Post.

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

Gao.

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.

Gao.

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 your self that which I am sure you do not know: or lump the after-enquiry on your own peril; and how you shall speed in your journies end, I think you'll return never 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.

Gao.

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 such 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.

Gao.

I'll be hang'd then.

Post.

Thou shalt be then freer than a Gaoler; no bolts for the Dead.

Gao.

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.