&plquo;Bell.
&plquo;A goodly day! not to keep house with such,
&plquo;Whose roof's as low as ours: see, boys! this gate
&plquo;Instructs you how t'adore the heav'ns; and bows you
&plquo;To morning's holy office. Gates of monarchs
&plquo;Are arch'd so high, that giants may jet through
&plquo;And keep their impious turbands on, without
&plquo;Good-morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heav'n!
&plquo;We house i'th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly
&plquo;As prouder livers do.

Guid.
Hail, heaven!

Arv.
Hail, heav'n!

&plquo;Bel.
&plquo;Now for our mountain sport, up to yond hill,
&plquo;Your legs are young: I'll tread these flats. Consider,
&plquo;When you above perceive me like a crow,
&plquo;That it is place which lessens and sets off;
&plquo;And you may then revolve what tales I told you,
&plquo;Of courts of princes, of the tricks in war,
&plquo;That service is not service, so being done,
&plquo;But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus,
&plquo;Draws us a profit from all things we see:
&plquo;And often to our comfort, shall we find
&plquo;The sharded beetle in a safer hold
&plquo;Than is the full-wing'd eagle. Oh this life,
&plquo;Is nobler than attending for a check;
&plquo;Richer, than doing nothing for a bauble;
&plquo;Prouder, than rustling in unpaid-for silk:
&plquo;Such gain the cap of him that makes them fine,

&plquo;Yet keeps his book uncross'd; no life to ours.

&plquo;Guid.
&plquo;Out of your proof you speak; we poor unfledg'd
&plquo;Have never wing'd from view o'th' nest; nor know
&plquo;What air's from home. Hap'ly this life is best,
&plquo;If quiet life is best, sweeter to you
&plquo;That have a sharper known: well corresponding
&plquo;With your stiff age; but unto us, it is
&plquo;A cell of ign'rance; travelling a-bed,
&plquo;A prison, ^{a note}for a debtor that not dares
&plquo;To stride a limit.

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

&plquo;Bel.
&plquo;How you speak!
&plquo;Did you but know the city's usuries,
&plquo;And felt them knowingly; the art o'th' court,
&plquo;As hard to leave, as keep; whose top to climb
&plquo;Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry that
&plquo;The fear's as bad as falling. The toil of war,
&plquo;A pain, that only seems to seek out danger
&plquo;I'th' name of fame and honour; which dies i'th' search,
&plquo;And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph,
&plquo;As record of fair act; nay, many time
&plquo;Doth ill deserve, by doing well: what's worse,
&plquo;Must curt'sie at the censure. Oh 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 theam, 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.

Guid.
Uncertain favour!

Bel.
My fault being nothing, as I told you oft,
But that two villains (whose false oaths prevail'd
Before my perfect honour) swore to Cymbeline,
I was confed'rate 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 th' mountains!
This is not hunters language; he that strikes
The venison first, shall be the lord o'th' 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 boys.
  How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature?
These boys know little they are sons to th' king,
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think they're mine; tho' trained up thus meanly
Here in the cave, wherein 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 Polydor,
(The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom

The king his father call'd Guiderius,) Jove!
When on my three-foot stool I sit, and tell
The warlike feats I've done, his spirits fly out
Into my story: say, thus mine enemy fell,
And thus I set my foot on's 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 Cadwall,
(Once Arviragus,) in as like a figure
Strikes life into my speech, and shews much more
His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rouz'd—
Oh Cymbeline! heav'n and my conscience know
Thou didst unjustly banish me: whereon
At three, and two years old, I stole these babes,
Thinking to bar thee of succession, as
Thou reft'st me of my lands. Euriphile,
Thou wast their nurse, they take thee for their mother,
And every day do honour to her grave;
My self Belarius that am Morgan call'd,
They take for natural father. The game's up. [Exit.

Previous section

Next section