792 As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn. The Battle continues; the Britons fly; CYMBE- The lane is guarded: nothing routs us, but Gui. Arv. Stand, stand, and fight! Enter POSTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons: They rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Then, enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and IMOGEN. Luc. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself: For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such As war were hood-wink'd. lach. "Tis their fresh supplies. Luc. It is a day turn'd strangely: or betimes Let's re-enforce, or fly. [Exeunt. SCENE III.-Another Part of the Field. Enter POSTHUMUS and a British LORD. Lord. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand? Post. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. Post. No blame be to you, Sir; for all was lost, But that the heavens fought: The king himself More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down Lord. Where was this lane? Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,- He, with two striplings, (lads more like to run ter; With their own nobleness, (which could have turn'd A distaff to a lance,) gilded pale looks, But by example (0, a sin in war, A rout, confusion thick: Forthwith they fly Lord. This was strange chance: A narrow lane! an old man, and two boys! Post. Nay, do not wonder at it: You are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear, Lord. Nay, be not angry, Sir. Who dares not stand his foe, I'll be his friend: I know, he'll quickly fly my friendship too. Lord. Farewell, you are angry. [Exit. Post. Still going?-This is a lord! O`noble misery! To be i'the field, and ask, what news, of me! To-day, how many would have given their honours [do't, To have sav'd their carcasses? took heel to And yet died too? I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death, where I did hear him groan; | Nor feel him where he struck: Being an ugly monster, [beds, 'Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft 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, Enter two British CAPTAINS, and Soldiers. 1 Cap. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken; [angels. 'Tis thought, the old man and his sons were 2 Cap. There was a fourth man, in a silly [habit, That gave the affrontt with them. 1 Cap. So 'tis reported: But none of them can be found.-Stand! who is there? Post. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here, if seHad answer'd him. [conds 2 Cap. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck'd them here: He brags his service As if he were of note: bring him to the king. Enter CYMBELINE, attended; BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, and ROMAN CAPTIVES. The CAPTAINS present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a JAILER: after which, all go out. SCENE IV.-A Prison. Enter POSTHUMUS, and two JAILERS. 1 Jail. You shall not now be stolen, you have looks upon you; So, graze, as you find pasture. 2 Jail. Ay, or a stomach. [Exeunt JAILERS. Post. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, 1 think, to liberty: Yet am I better Than one that's sick o'the gout: since he had Groan so in perpetuity, than be cur'd [rather 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, I know, you are more clement than vile men, 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, [He sleeps. Solemn music.+ Enter, as an Apparition, SICILIUS LEONATUS, Father to POSTHUMUS, an old Man, attired like a Warrior ; leading in his hand an ancient Matron, his Wife, and Mother to POSTHUMUS, 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 With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, I died, whilst in the womb he stay'd * Fetters. +This Scene is supposed not to be Shakspeare's, but foisted in by the Players for more show, Whose father then (as men report, Thou orphans' father art,) Thou should'st have been, and shielded him Sici. Great nature, like his ancestry, That he deserv'd the praise o'the world, 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? [mock'd, Moth. With marriage wherefore was he From her his dearest one, Sici. Why did you suffer Iachimo, To taint his nobler heart and brain 2 Bro. For this, from stiller seats we came, Our parents, and us twain, That, striking in our country's cause, With honour to maintain. 1 Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus 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; Upon a valiant race, thy harsh And potent injuries: Moth. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Sici. Peep through thy marble mansion; help! To the shining synod of the rest, Against thy deity. 2 Bro. Help, Jupiter; or we appeal, And from thy justice fly. JUPITER descends in Thunder and Lightning, sitting upon an Eagle: he throws a Thunder-bolt. The Ghosts fall on their knees. low, Jup. No more, you petty spirits of region [ghosts, Offend our hearing; hush!-How dare you 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 accidents 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 He shall be lord of lady Imogen, [fade! * The fool All. Thanks, Jupiter! Sici. The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd His radiant roof:-Away! and, to be blest, A father to me: and thou hast created What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O, rare one! Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Reads. When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate, and flourish in peace and plenty. "Tis still a dream; or else such stuff as madmen 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 JAILERS. Jail. Come, Sir, are you ready for death? Post. Over-roasted rather: ready long ago. Jail. Hanging is the word, Sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cooked. Post. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot. Jail. 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 debitor 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 ts live. Jail. 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. Jail. Your death has eyes in's head then; I have not seen him so pictured: you must either be directed by some that take upon them to know; or take upon yourself that, which 1 an 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. Juil. 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. Mess. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the king. Post. Thou bringest good news;-I am called to be made free. Jail. I'll be hang'd then. Post. Thou shalt be then freer than a jailer; no bolts for the dead. [Exeunt POSTHUMUS and MESSENGER. Jail. Unless a man would marry a gallows, and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman: and there be some of them too, that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good, O, there were desolation of jailers, and gallowses! I speak against my present pront; but my wish hath a preferment in't. [Exeunt. SCENE V.-CYMBELINE'S Tent. Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, Lords, Officers, and Attendants. Cym. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart, Stepp'd before target of proof, cannot be found: Such noble fury in so poor a thing; [nought Cym. No tidings of him? Pis. He hath been search'd among the deau 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 Britain. By whom, I grant, she lives; "Tis now the time [To BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS. To ask of whence you are :-report it. + Forward. * Hazard, Target, shield. Bel. Sir, In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen: Further to boast, were neither true nor modest, Unless I add, we are honest. Cym. Bow your knees: Arise my knights o'the 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'the court of Britain. Cor. Hail, great king! To sour your happiness, I must report 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 With such integrity, she did confess 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, Her son into the adoption of the crown. Cym. Heard you all this, her women? Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, the SOOTHSAYER, and other Roman Prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS behind, and IMOGEN. 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, [slaughter That their good souls may be appeas'd with Of you their captives, which ourself have So, think of your estate. [granted; Luc. Consider, Sir, the chance of war: the day Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm, Cym. I have surely seen him: 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. on? speak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend? Cym. Wherefore ey'st him so? 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. [ČYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart. Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death? Art. One sand another Not more resembles: That sweet rosy lad, Who died, and was Fidele :-What think you? Gui. The same dead thing alive. Bel. Peace, peace! see further; he eyes us Gui. But we saw him dead. * Ready, dextrou [Avide 4 Countenance. Since she is living, let the time run on, [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN come forward. Cym. Come, stand thou by our side; Make thy demand aloud.-Sir, [To IACH.] step you forth; Give answer to this boy, and do it freely; Imo. My boon is, that this gentleman may Of whom he had this ring. [render Post. What's that to him? [Aside. Cym. That diamond upon your finger, say, How came it yours? lach. Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken Which, to be spoke, would torture thee. [that Cym. How! me? Iuch. I am glad to be constrain'd to utter that which Torments me to conceal. By villany As it doth me,) a nobler Sir ne'er liv'd 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: [will, I had rather thou should'st live while nature Than die ere I hear more: strive man, and speak. lach. Upon a time, (unhappy was the clock That struck the hour!) it was in Rome, (accurs'd 'would The mansion where!) 'twas at a feast, (O 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 The shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Min- Cym. I stand on fire: Come to the matter. Iach. All too soon I shall, Unless thou would'st 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 he 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 descripProv'd us unspeaking sots. Cym. Nay, nay, to the purpose. [tion Jach. Your daughter's chastity-there it begins. He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams, Sink into dejection. Made scruple of his praise; and wager'd with him Pieces of gold, 'gainst this which then he wore Post I in this design: Well may you, Sir, Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain (O, cunning, how I got it!) nay, some marks Post. Ay, so thou dost, [Coming forward. Imo. Peace, my lord; hear, hearPost. Shall's have a play of this? Thou scornful page, There lie thy part. [Striking her: she falls. Pis. O gentlemen, help, help [húmus! Mine, and your mistress:-O, my lord PostYou ne'er kill'd Imogen till now:-Help, Mine honour'd lady! [help! Cym. Does the world go round? 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; [hence! Thou gav'st me poison: dangerous fellow, The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if Not only the temple of virtue, but virtue herself |