Thou com'st not, Caius, now for Tribute; That
The Britons have raz'd out, though with the loss
Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit,
That their good souls may be appeas'd with slaughter
Of you their Captives, which our self have granted.
So, think of your estate.

Luc.
Consider, Sir, the chance of war; the day
Was yours by accident: had it gone with us,
We should not, when the blood was cold, have threatned
Our Prisoners with the sword. But since the Gods
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be call'd ransome, let it come. Sufficeth,
A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer.—
Augustus lives to think on't—And so much
For my peculiar care. This one thing only
I will intreat: my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ransom'd; never master had
A page so kind, so duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occasions, true,
So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue join
With my request, which, I'll make bold, your Highness
Cannot deny: he hath done no Briton harm,
Though he hath serv'd a Roman. Save him, Sir,
And spare no blood beside.

Cym.
I've surely seen him;
His favour is familiar to me. Boy,
Thou hast look'd thy self into my grace,
And art mine own. I know not why, nor wherefore,
To say, live, boy: ne'er thank thy master, live;
And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,

Fitting my bounty, and thy state, I'll give it:
Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner,
The noblest ta'en.

Imo.
I humbly thank your Highness.

Luc.
I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad;
And yet, I know, thou wilt.

Imo.
No, no, alack,
There's other work in hand; I see a thing
Bitter to me, as death; your life, good master,
Must shuffle for it self.

Luc.
The boy disdains me,
He leaves me, scorns me: briefly die their joys,
That place them on the truth of girls and boys!
Why stands he so perplext?

Cym.
What would'st thou, boy?
I love thee more and more: think more and more,
What's best to ask. Know'st him thou look'st on? speak,
Wilt have him live? is he thy kin? thy friend?

Imo.
He is a Roman; no more kin to me,
Than I to your Highness: who, being born your vassal,
Am something nearer.

Cym.
Wherefore eye'st him so?

Imo.
I'll tell you, Sir, in private, if you please
To give me hearing.

Cym.
Ay, with all my heart,
And lend my best attention. What's thy name?

Imo.
Fidele, Sir.

Cym.
Thou art my good youth, my page;
I'll be thy master: walk with me, speak freely. [Cymbel. and Imo. walk aside.

Bel.
Is not this boy reviv'd from death?

Arv.
^{1 note}

One sand another

Not more resembles, than He th' sweet rosie lad,
Who dy'd and was Fidele. What think you?

Guid.
The same dead thing alive.

Bel.
Peace, peace, see more; he eyes us not; forbear,
Creatures may be alike: were't he, I'm sure,
He would have spoke t'us.

Guid.
But we saw him dead.

Bel.
Be silent: let's see further.

Pis.
'Tis my mistress— [Aside.
Since she is living, let the time run on,
To good, or bad. [Cymb. and Imog. come forward.

Cym.
Come, stand thou by our side.
Make thy demand aloud.—Sir, Step you forth, [To Iachimo.
Give answer to this boy, and do it freely;
Or, by our Greatness and the Grace of it,
Which is our Honour, bitter torture shall
Winnow the truth from falshood—On; speak to him.

Imo.
My boon is, that this Gentleman may render
Of whom he had this ring.

Post.
What's that to him?

Cym.
That diamond upon your finger, say,
How came it yours?

Iach.
Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken That,
Which to be spoke would torture thee.

Cym.
How? me?

Iach.
I am glad to be constrain'd to utter what
Torments me to conceal. By villany
I got this ring; 'twas Leonatus' jewel,
Whom thou didst banish: and (which more may grieve thee,
As it doth me) a nobler Sir ne'er liv'd
'Twixt sky and ground. Will you hear more, my lord?

Cym.
All that belongs to this.

Iach.
That paragon, thy daughter,
For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits
Quail to remember,—give me leave, I faint.—

Cym.
My daughter, what of her? renew thy strength;
I'd rather thou should'st live, while nature will,
Than die ere I hear more: strive, man, and speak.

Iach.
Upon a time, (unhappy was the clock,
That struck the hour;) it was in Rome, (accurs'd
The mansion where) 'twas at a feast, (oh, would
Our viands had been poison'd! or at least,
Those which I heav'd to head:) the good Posthumus—
(What should I say? he was too good to be
Where ill men were; and was the best of all
Amongst the rar'st of good ones)—sitting sadly,
Hearing us praise our Loves of Italy
For Beauty, that made barren the swell'd Boast
Of him that best could speak; ^{2 note}

Postures beyond brief nature; for condition,
A shop of all the qualities, that man
Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving,
Fairness, which strikes the eye—

Cym.
I stand on fire.
Come to the matter.

Iach.
All too soon I shall,
Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly.—This Posthumus,
(Most like a noble lord in love, and one
That had a royal lover) took his hint;
And, not dispraising whom we prais'd, (therein
He was as calm as virtue) he began
His mistress' picture; which by his tongue being made,
And then a mind put in't, either our brags
Were crack'd-of kitchen-trulls, or his description
Prov'd us unspeaking sots.

Cym.
Nay, nay, to th' purpose.

Iach.
Your daughter's chastity;—there it begins:
He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreams,

And she alone were cold; whereat, I, wretch!—
Made scruple of his praise; and wag'd with him
Pieces of gold, 'gainst This which then he wore
Upon his honour'd finger, to attain
In suit the place of's bed, and win this ring
By hers and mine adultery. He, true Knight,
No lesser of her honour confident
Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring;
And would so, had it been a carbuncle
Of Phœbus' wheel; and might so safely, had it
Been all the worth of's Car. Away to Britaine
Post I in this design: well may you, Sir,
Remember me at court, where I was taught
By your chaste daughter the wide difference
'Twixt amorous, and villainous. Being thus quench'd
Of Hope, not Longing, mine Italian brain
'Gan in your duller Britaine operate
Most vilely: for my vantage excellent;
And, to be brief, my practice so prevail'd,
That I return'd with simular proof enough
To make the noble Leonatus mad,
By wounding his belief in her renown,
With tokens thus, and thus; averring notes
Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet;
(Oh, cunning! how I got it) nay, some marks
Of secret on her person; that he could not
But think her bond of chastity quite crack'd,
I having ta'en the forfeit; whereupon,
Methinks, I see him now—

Post.
Ay, so thou do'st, [Coming forward.
Italian fiend! ah me, most credulous fool,
Egregious murtherer, thief, any thing
That's due to all the villains past, in Being,
To come—oh, give me cord, or knife, or poison,
Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send out
For torturers ingenious; it is I
That all th' abhorred things o' th' earth amend,

By being worse than they. I am Posthumus
That kill'd thy daughter;—villain-like, I lie;
That caus'd a lesser villain than myself,
A sacrilegious thief, to do't. The temple
Of virtue was she, yea, and She herself.—
Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set
The dog o' th' street to bay me: every villain
Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and
Be villany less than 'twas!—Oh Imogen!
My Queen, my life, my wife! oh Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!

Imo.
Peace, my lord, hear, hear—

Post.
Shall's have a Play of this?
Thou scornful page, there lie thy part, [Striking her, she falls.

Pis.
Oh, gentlemen, help,
Mine, and your mistress—Oh, my lord Posthumus!
You ne'er kill'd Imogen 'till now—help, help,
Mine honour'd lady—

Cym.
Does the world go round?

Post.
How come these staggers on me?

Pis.
Wake, my mistress!

Cym.
If this be so, the Gods do mean to strike me
To death with mortal joy.

Pis.
How fares my mistress?

Imo.
O, get thee from my sight;
Thou gav'st me poison: dang'rous fellow, hence!
Breathe not, where Princes are.

Cym.
The tune of Imogen!

Pis.
Lady, the Gods throw stones of sulphur on me,
If what I gave you was not thought by me.
A precious thing: I had it from the Queen.

Cym.
New matter still?

Imo.
It poison'd me.

Cor.
Oh Gods!
I left out one thing which the Queen confess'd,
Which must approve thee honest. If Pisanio

Have, said she, giv'n his mistress that confection,
Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv'd
As I would serve a rat.

Cym.
What's this, Cornelius?

Cor.
The Queen, Sir, very oft importun'd me
To temper poisons for her; still pretending
The satisfaction of her knowledge, only
In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs
Of no esteem; I, dreading that her purpose
Was of more danger, did compound for her
A certain stuff, which, being ta'en would seize
The present power of life; but, in short time,
All offices of nature should again
Do their due functions. Have you ta'en of it?

Imo.
Most like I did, for I was dead.

Bel.
My boys, there was our error.

Guid.
This is, sure, Fidele.

Imo.
Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
^{3 note}

Post.
Hang there like fruit, my soul,
'Till the tree die!

Cym.
How now, my flesh? my child?
What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this act?
Wilt thou not speak to me?

Imo.
Your Blessing, Sir. [Kneeling.

Bel.
Tho' you did love this youth, I blame you not,
You had a motive for't. [To Guid. Arvir.

Cym.
My tears, that fall,
Prove holy-water on thee! Imogen,
Thy mother's dead.

Imo.
I'm sorry for't, my lord.

Cym.
Oh, she was naught; and long of her it was,
That we meet here so strangely; but her son
Is gone, we know not how, nor where.

Pis.
My lord,
Now fear is from me, I'll speak truth. Lord Cloten,
Upon my lady's missing, came to me
With his sword drawn, foam'd at the mouth, and swore,
If I discover'd not which way she went,
It was my instant death. By accident
I had a feigned letter of my master's
Then in my pocket; which directed her
To seek him on the mountains near to Milford:
Where, in a frenzy, in my master's garments,
Which he inforc'd from me, away he posts
With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate
My lady's honour: What became of him,
I further know not.

Guid.
Let me end the story;
I slew him there.

Cym.
Marry, the Gods forefend!
I would not, thy good deeds should from my lips
Pluck a hard sentence: pr'ythee, valiant youth,
Deny't again.

Guid.
I've spoke it, and I did it.

Cym.
He was a Prince.

Guid.
A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me,
Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me
With language that would make me spurn the sea,
Could it so roar to me. I cut off's head;
And am right glad, he is not standing here
To tell this tale of mine.

Cym.
I'm sorry for thee;

By thine own tongue thou art condemn'd, and must
Endure our law: thou'rt dead.

Imo.
That headless man
I thought had been my lord.

Cym.
Bind the offender,
And take him from our presence.

Bel.
Stay, Sir King,
This man is better than the man he slew,
As well descended as thyself; and hath
More of thee merited, than a band of Clotens
Had ever scar for.—Let his arms alone; [To the Guard.
They were not born for bondage.

Cym.
Why, old Soldier,
Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for,
^{4 note}

Arv.
In that he spake too far.

Cym.
And thou shalt die for't.

Bel.
We will die all three,
But I will prove, that two on's are as good
As I've giv'n out of him. My sons, I must,
For my own part, unfold a dangerous speech,
Though, haply, well for you.

Arv.
Your danger's ours.

Guid.
And our good, his.

Bel.
Have at it then, by leave:
Thou had'st, great King, a subject, who was call'd Belarius.

Cym.
What of him? a banish'd traitor.

Bel.
He it is, that hath

Assum'd this age; indeed, a banish'd man;
I know not how, a traitor.

Cym.
Take him hence,
The whole world shall not save him.

Bel.
Not too hot:
First, pay me for the nursing of thy sons;
And let it be confiscate all, so soon
As I've receiv'd it.

Cym.
Nursing of my sons?

Bel.
I am too blunt, and saucy; here's my knee:
Ere I arise, I will prefer my sons,
Then spare not the old father. Mighty Sir,
These two young gentlemen, that call me father,
And think they are my sons, are none of mine;
They are the issue of your loins, my liege,
And blood of your begetting.

Cym.
How? my issue?

Bel.
So sure, as you, your father's: I, old Morgan,
Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish'd;
Your pleasure was my near offence, my punishment
Itself, and all my treason: That I suffer'd,
Was all the harm I did. These gentle Princes
(For such and so they are,) these twenty years
Have I train'd up; such arts they have, as I
Could put into them. Sir, my breeding was,
As your Grace knows. Their nurse Euriphile,
Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children
Upon my banishment: I mov'd her to't;
Having receiv'd the punishment before,
For That which I did then. Beaten for loyalty,
Excited me to treason. Their dear loss,
The more of you 'twas felt, the more it shap'd
Unto my end of stealing them. But, Sir,
Here are your sons again; and I must lose
Two of the sweet'st companions in the world.
The benediction of these covering heav'ns
Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy

^{5 note}To in-lay heav'n with stars.

Cym.
Thou weep'st, and speak'st:
The service, that you three have done, is more
Unlike, than this thou tell'st. I lost my children—
If these be they, I know not how to wish
A pair of worthier sons.

Bel.
Be pleas'd a while—
This gentleman, whom I call Paladour,
Most worthy Prince, as yours, is true Guiderius:
This gentleman, my Cadwall, Arviragus,
Your younger princely son; he, Sir, was lapt
In a most curious mantle, wrought by th' hand
Of his Queen-mother, which, for more probation,
I can with ease produce.

Cym.
Guiderius had
Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star;
It was a mark of wonder.

Bel.
This is he;
Who hath upon him still that nat'ral stamp:
It was wise Nature's end, in the donation,
To be his evidence now.

Cym.
Oh, what am I
A mother to the birth of three! ne'er mother
Rejoic'd deliverance more; blest may you be,
That, after this strange starting from your orbs,
You may reign in them now! oh Imogen,
Thou'st lost by this a kingdom.

Imo.
No, my lord:
I've got two worlds by't. Oh, my gentle brothers,
Have we thus met? oh, never say hereafter,
But I am truest speaker. You call'd me brother,
When I was but your sister: I, you brothers;
When ye were so, indeed.

Cym.
Did you e'er meet?

Arv.
Ay, my good lord.

Guid.
And at first meeting lov'd;
Continued so, until we thought he died.

Cor.
By the Queen's dram she swallow'd.

Cym.
O rare instinct!
When shall I hear all through? this fierce abridgment
Hath to it circumstantial branches, which
Distinction should be rich in.—Where? how liv'd you?
And when came you to serve our Roman captive?
How parted with your brothers? how first met them?
Why fled you from the court? and whither?—These,
And your three motives to the battle, with
I know not how much more, should be demanded;
And all the other by-dependances
From chance to chance: but not the time, nor place,
Will serve long interrogatories. See,
Posthumus anchors upon Imogen;
And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye
On him, her brothers, me, her master; hitting
Each object with a joy. The counter-change
Is sev'rally in all. Let's quit this ground,
And smoak the temple with our sacrifices.
Thou art my brother; so we'll hold thee ever. [To Belarius.

Imo.
You are my father too, and did relieve me,
To see this gracious season!

Cym.
All o'er-joy'd,
Save these in bonds: let them be joyful too,
For they shall taste our comfort.

Imo.
My good master,
I will yet do you service.

Luc.
Happy be you!

Cym.
The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought,
He would have well become this place, and grac'd
The thankings of a King.

Post.
'Tis I am, Sir,

The soldier, that did company these three,
In poor Beseeming: 'twas a fitment for
The purpose I then follow'd. That I was he,
Speak, Iachimo, I had you down, and might
Have made your finish.

Iach.
I am down again:
But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, [Kneels.
And then your force did. Take that life, 'beseech you,
Which I so often owe: but, your ring first;
And here the bracelet of the truest Princess,
That ever swore her faith.

Post.
Kneel not to me:
The power, that I have on you, is to spare you:
The malice tow'rds you, to forgive you. Live,
And deal with others better!

Cym.
Nobly doom'd:
We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law;
Pardon's the word to all.

Arv.
You help'd us, Sir,
As you did mean, indeed, to be our brother;
Joy'd are we, that you are.

Post.
Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome,
Call forth your Soothsayer. As I slept, methought,
Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back'd,
Appear'd to me, with other sprightly shews
Of mine own kindred. When I wak'd, I found
This label on my bosom; whose containing
Is so from sense in hardness, that I can
Make no collection of it. Let him shew
His skill in the construction.

Luc.
Philarmonus,—

Sooth.
Here, my good Lord.

Luc.
Read, and declare the meaning. [Reads.]

When as a 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

branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britaine be fortunate, and flourish in peace and plenty.

Cym.
This has some seeming.

Sooth.
The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,
Personates thee; and thy lopt branches point
Thy two sons forth: who, by Belarius stol'n,
For many years thought dead, are now reviv'd,
To the majestick cedar join'd; whose Issue
Promises Britaine peace and plenty.

Cym.
My peace we will begin, and, Caius Lucius,
Although the victor, we submit to Cæsar,
And to the Roman Empire; promising,
To pay our wonted tribute, from the which
We were dissuaded by our wicked Queen;
On whom heav'n's justice (both on her, and hers)
Hath laid most heavy hand.

Sooth.
The singers of the Powers above do tune
The harmony of this peace: the vision,
Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke
Of this yet scarce-cold battle, at this instant
Is full accomplish'd. For the Roman eagle,
From south to west on wing soaring aloft,
Lessen'd herself, and in the beams o'th' sun
So vanish'd; which fore-shew'd our princely eagle,

Th' imperial Cæsar, should again unite
His favour with the radiant Cymbeline,
Which shines here in the west.

Cym.
Laud we the Gods!
And let the crooked smoaks climb to their Nostrils
From our blest altars! publish we this Peace
To all our Subjects. Set we forward: let
A Roman and a British Ensign wave
Friendly together; so through Lud's town march:
And in the Temple of great Jupiter
Our Peace we'll ratifie. Seal it with feasts.
Set on, there: Never was a War did cease,
Ere bloody hands were wash'd, with such a Peace. [Exeunt omnes.

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