Bel.
A goodly day14Q1271 not to keep house, with such
Whose roof's as low as ours!—Stoop, boys: ^note This gate
Instructs you how to adore the heavens; and bows you
To morning's holy office: The gates of monarchs
Are arch'd so high, that giants may jet through
And keep their impious turbands on, without
Good morrow to the sun.—Hail, thou fair heaven!
We house i'the rock, yet use thee not so hardly
As prouder livers do.

Gui.
Hail, heaven!

Arv.
Hail, heaven!

Bel.
Now for our mountain sport: Up to yon' hill,
Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider,
When you above perceive me like a crow,
That it is place, which lessens, and sets off.
And you may then revolve what tales I have told you,
Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war:
This service is not service, so being done,
But being so allow'd: To apprehend thus,
Draws us a profit from all things we see:

And often, to our comfort, shall we find
The sharded beetle in a safer hold
Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life
Is nobler, than attending for a check;
Richer, than doing nothing for a babe;
Prouder, than rustling in unpay'd-for silk:
Such gain the cap of him, that makes 'em fine ^note
Yet keeps his book uncross'd: no life to ours.

Gui.
Out of your proof you speak: we, poor unfledg'd,
Have never wing'd from view o'the nest; nor know ^note not
What air's from home. Haply, this life is best,
If quiet life be best; sweeter to you,
That have a sharper known; well corresponding
With your stiff age: but, unto us, it is
A cell of ignorance; travelling abed;
A prison for a ^note debtor, that not dares
To stride a limit.

Arv.
What should we speak of,
When we are old as you? when we shall hear
The wind and rain beat dark December, how,
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing:
We are beastly; subtle as the fox, for prey;
Like warlike as the wolf, for what we eat:
Our valour is, to chace what flyes; our cage
We make a quire, as doth the prison'd bird,
And sing our bondage freely.

Bel.
How you speak!
Did you but know the city's usuries,
And felt them knowingly: the art o'the court,
As hard to leave, as keep; whose top to climb

Is certain falling, or so slippery, that
The fear's as bad as falling: the toil o'the war,
A pain that only seems to seek out danger ^note
I'the name of fame, and honour; which dyes i' the search;
And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph,
As record of fair act; nay, many times,
Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse,
Must curt'sy at the censure:—O, boys, this story
The world may read in me: My body's mark'd
With Roman swords; and my report was once
First with the best of note: Cymbeline lov'd me;
And when a soldier was the theme, my name
Was not far off: Then was I as a tree,
Whose boughs did bend with fruit: but, in one night,
A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,
And left me bare to weather.

Gui.
Uncertain favour!

Bel.
My fault being nothing (as I have told you oft)
But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd
Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline
I was confederate with the Romans: so,
Follow'd my banishment; and, this twenty years,
This rock, and these demesnes, have been my world:
Where I have liv'd at honest freedom; pay'd
More pious debts to heaven, than in all
The fore-end of my time. But, up to the mountains;
This is not hunters' language: He, that strikes
The venison first, shall be the lord o'the feast;
To him the other two shall minister;
And we will fear no poison, which attends
In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys.

[Exeunt. Gui. and Arv.
How hard it is, to hide the sparks of nature!
These boys know little, they are sons to the king;
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think, they are mine: and, though train'd up thus meanly
I'the cave, where on ^note the bow,14Q1272 their thoughts do hit
The roofs of palaces; and nature prompts them,
In simple and low things, to prince it, much
Beyond the trick of others. This Paladour,—
The heir of Cymbeline, and Britain, whom ^note
The king his father call'd Guiderius,—Jove!
When on my three-foot stool I sit, and tell
The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out
Into my story: say, Thus mine enemy fell;
And thus I set my foot on his neck; even then
The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,
Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture
That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,
(Once, Arvirágus) in as like a figure
Strikes life into my speech, and shews much more
His own conceiving. Hark! the game is rouz'd.
O Cymbeline, heaven, and my conscience, knows
Thou did'st unjustly banish me: whereon,
At two, and three years old, I stole these babes;
Thinking to bar thee of succession, as
Thou reft'st ^note me of my lands. Euriphile,
Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother,
And every day do honour to thy grave ^note:
Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,
They take for natural father. The game is up. [Exit Belarius.

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