Cym.
Stand by my side, you, whom the Gods have made
Preservers of my Throne. Wo is my heart,
That the poor Soldier, that so richly fought,
(Whose rags sham'd gilded arms; whose naked breast
Stept before shields of proof,) cannot be found:
He shall be happy that can find him, if
Our grace can make him so.

Bel.
^{9 note}

Cym.
No tydings of him?

Pis.
He hath been search'd among the dead and living,
But no trace of him.

Cym.
To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward; which I will add
To you, (the liver, heart, and brain of Britaine;) [To Bel. Guid. and Arvirag.
By whom, I grant, she lives. 'Tis now the time
To ask of whence you are. Report it.

Bel.
Sir,
In Cambria are we born, and Gentlemen:
Farther to boast, were neither true nor modest,
Unless I add, we're honest.

Cym.
Bow your knees;
Arise my Knights o'th' battle; I create you
Companions to our person, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates. Enter Cornelius, and Ladies.
There's business in these faces: why so sadly
Greet you our victory? you look like Romans,
And not o'th' Court of Britaine.

Cor.
Hail, great King!
To sour your happiness, I must report
The Queen is dead.

Cym
Whom worse than a physician
Would this report become? but I consider,
By med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death
Will seize the Doctor too. How ended she?

Cor.
With horror, madly dying, like herself;
Who, being cruel to the world, concluded
Most cruel to her self. What she confest,
I will report, so please you: These her women
Can trip me, if I err; who, with wet cheeks,
Were present when she finish'd.

Cym.
Pr'thee, say.

Cor.
First, she confess'd, she never lov'd you: only
Affected Greatness got by you, not you:
Married your Royalty, was wife to your Place;
Abhorr'd your person.

Cym.
She alone knew this:
And, but she spoke it dying, I would not
Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.

Cor.
Your Daughter, whom she bore in hand to love
With such integrity, she did confess,
Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,
But that her flight prevented it, she had
Ta'en off by poison.

Cym.
O most delicate fiend!
Who is't can read a woman? is there more?

Cor.
More, Sir, and worse. She did confess, she had
For you a mortal mineral; which, being took,
Should by the minute feed on life, and lingring
By inches waste you. In which time she purpos'd,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to
O'ercome you with her shew: yes, and in time,
(When she had fitted you with her craft,) to work
Her son into th' adoption of the Crown:
But failing of her end by his strange absence,
Grew shameless, desperate; open'd, in despight
Of heaven and men, her purposes: repented,
The ills she hatch'd were not effected: so,
Despairing, dy'd.

Cym.
Heard you all this, her Women?

Lady.
We did, so please your Highness.

Cym.
Mine eyes
Were not in fault, for she was beautiful:
Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart,
That thought her like her Seeming. It had been vicious
To have mistrusted her. Yet, oh my daughter!
That it was folly in me, thou may'st say,
And prove it in thy feeling. Heav'n mend all!

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