Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me, than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o'the Leonati in me! To shame the guise o'the world, I will begin The fashion, less without, and more within. [Exit. SCENE II.-The same. Enter at one side, Lucius, lachimo, and the Roman army; at the other side, the British army; Leonatus Posthumus following it, like a poor soldier. They march over, and go out. Alarums. Then enter again in skirmish, Iachimo and Posthumus; he vanquisheth and disarmeth Lachimo, and then leaves him.

lach. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood: I have belied a lady, The princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly enfeebles me; Or could this carl,' A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me, In my profession? Knighthoods and honours, borne As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout, as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is, that we scarce are men, and you are gods.

[Exit.

The battle continues; the Britons fly; Cymbeline is taken: then enter, to his rescue, Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus.

An honest one, I warrant; who deserv'd
So long a breeding, as his white beard came to,
In doing this for his country ;-athwart the lane,
He, with two striplings (lads more like to run
The country base,' than to commit such slaughter;
With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer
Than those for preservation cas'd, or shame,)
Made good the passage; cry'd to those that fled,
Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men:
To darkness fleet, souls that fly backwards! Stand;
Or we are Romans, and will give you that
Like beasts, which you shun beastly; and may save,
But to look back in frown: stand, stand.-These
three,
Three thousand confident, in act as many,
(For three performers are the file, when all
The rest do nothing,) with this word, Stand, stand,
Accommodated by the place, more charming,
With their own nobleness (which could have turn'd
A distaff to a lance,) gilded pale looks,
Part, shame, part, spirit renew'd; that some, turn'd

coward

the ground;

The lane is guarded: nothing routs us, but The villany of our fears.

Gui. Arv.

open

Stand, stand, and fight! Enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britons: rescue Cymbeline, and exeunt. Then, enter cius, Iachimo, and Imogen.

This was strange chance:

self:

Post. No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost,
But that the heavens fought: The king himself
Of his wings destitute, the army broken,
And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying
Through a straight lane; the enemy full-hearted,
Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work
More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down
Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling
Merely through fear; that the strait pass was
damm'd'

With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living
To die with lengthen'd shame.
Lord.
Where was this lane?
Post. Close by the battle, ditch'd and wall'd with
turf;

Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,

Post. Nay, do not wonder at it: You are made Rather to wander at the things you hear, Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't, And vent it for a mockery? Here is one: Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane, Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane. Lord. Nay, be not angry, sir. Post.

'Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe, I'll be his friend : For if he'll do, as he is made to do,

I know, he'll quickly fly my friendship too.
You have put me into rhyme.

Lord.
Farewell, you are angry. [Exit.
Post. Still going?-This is a lord! O noble
mise. y!

To be i'the field, and ask what news, of me!
To-day, how many would have given their honours
To have sav'd their carcasses? took heel to do't,
And yet died too? I, in mine own wo charm'd,
Could not find death, where I did hear him groan;
Nor feel him, where he struck: Being an ugly

monster,

'Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,
Sweet words, or hath more ministers than we
That draw his knives i'the war.-Well, I will find
him:

For being now a favourer to the Roman,
No more a Briton, I have resum'd again
The part I came in: Fight I will no more,
But yield me to the veriest hind, that shall
Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is,

(4) Terrors.

1 Gaol. You shall not now be stolen, 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'the gout: since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity, than be cur'd

By the sure physician, death; who is the key To unbar these locks. My conscience! thou art fetter'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,2
Desir'd, more than constrain'd: to satisfy,
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 these cold bonds. O Imogen!
I'll speak to thee in silence.

[He sleeps.

;

mus, with music before them. Then, after other music, follow the two young Leonati, brothers to Posthumus, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle Posthumus round, as he lies sleeping.

Sici. No more, thou thunder-master, show
Thy spite on mortal flies:

With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,
That thy adulteries

Rates and revenges.

Hath my poor boy done aught but well,
Whose face I never saw?

I died, whilst in the womb he staid
Attending nature's law.

Whose father then (as men report,
Thou orphans' father art,)

Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him
From this earth-vexing smart.
Moth. Lucina lent not me her aid,
But took me in my throes:

That from me was Posthúmus 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'the 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 fruitful object be

In eye of Imogen, that best

Could deem his dignity?

Moth. With marriage wherefore was he mock'd, 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 noble heart and brain
With needless jealousy;

And to become the geck and scorn
O'the other's 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 Posthúmus 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.

Jup. 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 Elysium, hence and rest
Upon your never-withering banks of flowers:
Be not with mortal accidens 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.-Rise, and fade!—
He shall be lord of lady Imogen,

And happier much by his affliction made.
This tablet lay upon his breast; wherein
Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine;
And so, away: no further with your din
Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.-
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.

[Ascends.
Sici. He came in thunder; his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle
Stoop'd, as to foot us: his ascension is
More sweet than our bless'd fields: his royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys 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.

[Ghosts vanish. Post. [Waking.] Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire, and begot

A father to me: and thou hast created
A mother and two brothers: But (0, scorn!)
Gone; they went 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? O, 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.

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

Gaol. 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 come 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: O! of this contradiction you shall now be quit.-O 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. Gaol. 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.

Gaol. 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 take upon yourself that, which I am sure you do not know; or jump' the after-inquiry on your own peril: and how you shall speed in your journey's end, I think you'll never return 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.

Gaol. 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, hanging's the way of winking.

Enter a Messenger.

'Tis still a dream; or else such stuff as madinen
Tongue, and brain not: either both, or nothing:
Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such
As sense cannot untie. Be what it is,
The action of my life is like it, which
I'll keep, if but for sympathy.

Re-enter Gaolers.

Gaol. Come, sir, are you ready for death? Post. Over-roasted rather ready long ago. Gaol. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cooked.

(1) Hazard. (2) Forward. (3) Target, shield.

But no trace of him.

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 medicine life may be prolong'd, yet death
Will seize the doctor too.-How ended she?

Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life;
Which being cruel to the world, concluded
Most cruel to herself. What she confess'd,
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'ythee, 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.

That it was folly in me, thou may'st say,
And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!
Enter Lucius, lachimo, the Soothsayer, and other
Roman Prisoners, guarded; Posthumus behind,
and Imogen.

Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute; that
The Britions 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 ourself 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 cool, have
threaten'd

Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods,
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be call'd ransom, 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 entreat; 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 have serv'd a Roman: save him, sir,
And spare no blood beside.

Cym.

I have surely seen him :

His favour2 is familiar to me.-
Boy, thou hast look'd thyself into my grace,
And art mine own.-I know not why, nor where-

love

For you a mortal mineral; which, being took,
Should by the minute feed on life, and, ling'ring,
By inches waste you: In which time she purpos'd,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to
O'ercome you with her show: yes, and in time
(When she had fitted you with her craft,) to work
Her son into the adoption of the crown.

But failing of her end by his strange absence,
Grew shameless desperate; open'd, in despite
Of heaven and men, her purposes; repented
The evils she hatch'd were not effected; so,
Despairing, died.

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,

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 itself.

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 perplex'd?

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?

Thou art my good youth, my page; I'll be thy master: Walk with me; speak freely. [Cymbeline and Imogene converse apart. Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death?

3 F