{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/cym.htm","path":"sks/ff/cym.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/cym.htm","text":"Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.\nEnter two Gentlemen.\n1.Gent. You do not meet a man but Frownes.\nOur bloods no more obey the Heauens\nThen our Courtiers:\nStill seeme, as do's the Kings\n2 Gent. But what's the matter?\n1. His daughter, and the heire of's kingdome (whom\nHe purpos'd to his wiues sole Sonne, a Widdow\nThat late he married) hath referr'd her selfe\nVnto a poore, but worthy Gentleman. She's wedded,\nHer Husband banish'd; she imprison'd, all\nIs outward sorrow, though I thinke the King\nBe touch'd at very heart\n2 None but the King?\n1 He that hath lost her too: so is the Queene,\nThat most desir'd the Match. But not a Courtier,\nAlthough they weare their faces to the bent\nOf the Kings lookes, hath a heart that is not\nGlad at the thing they scowle at\n2 And why so?\n1 He that hath miss'd the Princesse, is a thing\nToo bad, for bad report: and he that hath her,\n(I meane, that married her, alacke good man,\nAnd therefore banish'd) is a Creature, such,\nAs to seeke through the Regions of the Earth\nFor one, his like; there would be something failing\nIn him, that should compare. I do not thinke,\nSo faire an Outward, and such stuffe Within\nEndowes a man, but hee\n2 You speake him farre\n1 I do extend him (Sir) within himselfe,\nCrush him together, rather then vnfold\nHis measure duly\n2 What's his name, and Birth?\n1 I cannot delue him to the roote: His Father\nWas call'd Sicillius, who did ioyne his Honor\nAgainst the Romanes, with Cassibulan,\nBut had his Titles by Tenantius, whom\nHe seru'd with Glory, and admir'd Successe:\nSo gain'd the Sur-addition, Leonatus.\nAnd had (besides this Gentleman in question)\nTwo other Sonnes, who in the Warres o'th' time\nDy'de with their Swords in hand. For which, their Father\nThen old, and fond of yssue, tooke such sorrow\nThat he quit Being; and his gentle Lady\nBigge of this Gentleman (our Theame) deceast\nAs he was borne. The King he takes the Babe\nTo his protection, cals him Posthumus Leonatus,\nBreedes him, and makes him of his Bed-chamber,\nPuts to him all the Learnings that his time\nCould make him the receiuer of, which he tooke\nAs we do ayre, fast as 'twas ministred,\nAnd in's Spring, became a Haruest: Liu'd in Court\n(Which rare it is to do) most prais'd, most lou'd,\nA sample to the yongest: to th' more Mature,\nA glasse that feated them: and to the grauer,\nA Childe that guided Dotards. To his Mistris,\n(For whom he now is banish'd) her owne price\nProclaimes how she esteem'd him; and his Vertue\nBy her electio[n] may be truly read, what kind of man he is\n2 I honor him, euen out of your report.\nBut pray you tell me, is she sole childe to'th' King?\n1 His onely childe:\nHe had two Sonnes (if this be worth your hearing,\nMarke it) the eldest of them, at three yeares old\nI'th' swathing cloathes, the other from their Nursery\nWere stolne, and to this houre, no ghesse in knowledge\nWhich way they went\n2 How long is this ago?\n1 Some twenty yeares\n2 That a Kings Children should be so conuey'd,\nSo slackely guarded, and the search so slow\nThat could not trace them\n1 Howsoere, 'tis strange,\nOr that the negligence may well be laugh'd at:\nYet is it true Sir\n2 I do well beleeue you\n1 We must forbeare. Heere comes the Gentleman,\nThe Queene, and Princesse.\nExeunt.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter the Queene, Posthumus, and Imogen.\nQu. No, be assur'd you shall not finde me (Daughter)\nAfter the slander of most Step-Mothers,\nEuill-ey'd vnto you. You're my Prisoner, but\nYour Gaoler shall deliuer you the keyes\nThat locke vp your restraint. For you Posthumus,\nSo soone as I can win th' offended King,\nI will be knowne your Aduocate: marry yet\nThe fire of Rage is in him, and 'twere good\nYou lean'd vnto his Sentence, with what patience\nYour wisedome may informe you\nPost. 'Please your Highnesse,\nI will from hence to day\nQu. You know the perill:\nIle fetch a turne about the Garden, pittying\nThe pangs of barr'd Affections, though the King\nHath charg'd you should not speake together.\nExit\nImo. O dissembling Curtesie! How fine this Tyrant\nCan tickle where she wounds? My deerest Husband,\nI something feare my Fathers wrath, but nothing\n(Alwayes reseru'd my holy duty) what\nHis rage can do on me. You must be gone,\nAnd I shall heere abide the hourely shot\nOf angry eyes: not comforted to liue,\nBut that there is this Iewell in the world,\nThat I may see againe\nPost. My Queene, my Mistris:\nO Lady, weepe no more, least I giue cause\nTo be suspected of more tendernesse\nThen doth become a man. I will remaine\nThe loyall'st husband, that did ere plight troth.\nMy residence in Rome, at one Filorio's,\nWho, to my Father was a Friend, to me\nKnowne but by Letter; thither write (my Queene)\nAnd with mine eyes, Ile drinke the words you send,\nThough Inke be made of Gall.\nEnter Queene.\nQu. Be briefe, I pray you:\nIf the King come, I shall incurre, I know not\nHow much of his displeasure: yet Ile moue him\nTo walke this way: I neuer do him wrong,\nBut he do's buy my Iniuries, to be Friends:\nPayes deere for my offences\nPost. Should we be taking leaue\nAs long a terme as yet we haue to liue,\nThe loathnesse to depart, would grow: Adieu\nImo. Nay, stay a little:\nWere you but riding forth to ayre your selfe,\nSuch parting were too petty. Looke heere (Loue)\nThis Diamond was my Mothers; take it (Heart)\nBut keepe it till you woo another Wife,\nWhen Imogen is dead\nPost. How, how? Another?\nYou gentle Gods, giue me but this I haue,\nAnd seare vp my embracements from a next,\nWith bonds of death. Remaine, remaine thou heere,\nWhile sense can keepe it on: And sweetest, fairest,\nAs I (my poore selfe) did exchange for you\nTo your so infinite losse; so in our trifles\nI still winne of you. For my sake weare this,\nIt is a Manacle of Loue, Ile place it\nVpon this fayrest Prisoner\nImo. O the Gods!\nWhen shall we see againe?\nEnter Cymbeline, and Lords.\nPost. Alacke, the King\nCym. Thou basest thing, auoyd hence, from my sight:\nIf after this command thou fraught the Court\nWith thy vnworthinesse, thou dyest. Away,\nThou'rt poyson to my blood\nPost. The Gods protect you,\nAnd blesse the good Remainders of the Court:\nI am gone\nImo. There cannot be a pinch in death\nMore sharpe then this is\nCym. O disloyall thing,\nThat should'st repayre my youth, thou heap'st\nA yeares age on mee\nImo. I beseech you Sir,\nHarme not your selfe with your vexation,\nI am senselesse of your Wrath; a Touch more rare\nSubdues all pangs, all feares\nCym. Past Grace? Obedience?\nImo. Past hope, and in dispaire, that way past Grace\nCym. That might'st haue had\nThe sole Sonne of my Queene\nImo. O blessed, that I might not: I chose an Eagle,\nAnd did auoyd a Puttocke\nCym. Thou took'st a Begger, would'st haue made my\nThrone, a Seate for basenesse\nImo. No, I rather added a lustre to it\nCym. O thou vilde one!\nImo. Sir,\nIt is your fault that I haue lou'd Posthumus:\nYou bred him as my Play-fellow, and he is\nA man, worth any woman: Ouer-buyes mee\nAlmost the summe he payes\nCym. What? art thou mad?\nImo. Almost Sir: Heauen restore me: would I were\nA Neat-heards Daughter, and my Leonatus\nOur Neighbour-Shepheards Sonne.\nEnter Queene.\nCym. Thou foolish thing;\nThey were againe together: you haue done\nNot after our command. Away with her,\nAnd pen her vp\nQu. Beseech your patience: Peace\nDeere Lady daughter, peace. Sweet Soueraigne,\nLeaue vs to our selues, and make your self some comfort\nOut of your best aduice\nCym. Nay, let her languish\nA drop of blood a day, and being aged\nDye of this Folly.\nEnter.\nEnter Pisanio.\nQu. Fye, you must giue way:\nHeere is your Seruant. How now Sir? What newes?\nPisa. My Lord your Sonne, drew on my Master\nQu. Hah?\nNo harme I trust is done?\nPisa. There might haue beene,\nBut that my Master rather plaid, then fought,\nAnd had no helpe of Anger: they were parted\nBy Gentlemen, at hand\nQu. I am very glad on't\nImo. Your Son's my Fathers friend, he takes his part\nTo draw vpon an Exile. O braue Sir,\nI would they were in Affricke both together,\nMy selfe by with a Needle, that I might pricke\nThe goer backe. Why came you from your Master?\nPisa. On his command: he would not suffer mee\nTo bring him to the Hauen: left these Notes\nOf what commands I should be subiect too,\nWhen't pleas'd you to employ me\nQu. This hath beene\nYour faithfull Seruant: I dare lay mine Honour\nHe will remaine so\nPisa. I humbly thanke your Highnesse\nQu. Pray walke a-while\nImo. About some halfe houre hence,\nPray you speake with me;\nYou shall (at least) go see my Lord aboord.\nFor this time leaue me.\nExeunt.\nScena Tertia.\nEnter Clotten, and two Lords.\n1. Sir, I would aduise you to shift a Shirt; the Violence\nof Action hath made you reek as a Sacrifice: where\nayre comes out, ayre comes in: There's none abroad so\nwholesome as that you vent\nClot. If my Shirt were bloody, then to shift it.\nHaue I hurt him?\n2 No faith: not so much as his patience\n1 Hurt him? His bodie's a passable Carkasse if he bee\nnot hurt. It is a through-fare for Steele if it be not hurt\n2 His Steele was in debt, it went o'th' Backe-side the\nTowne\nClot. The Villaine would not stand me\n2 No, but he fled forward still, toward your face\n1 Stand you? you haue Land enough of your owne:\nBut he added to your hauing, gaue you some ground\n2 As many Inches, as you haue Oceans (Puppies.)\nClot. I would they had not come betweene vs\n2 So would I, till you had measur'd how long a Foole\nyou were vpon the ground\nClot. And that shee should loue this Fellow, and refuse\nmee\n2 If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damn'd\n1 Sir, as I told you alwayes: her Beauty & her Braine\ngo not together. Shee's a good signe, but I haue seene\nsmall reflection of her wit\n2 She shines not vpon Fooles, least the reflection\nShould hurt her\nClot. Come, Ile to my Chamber: would there had\nbeene some hurt done\n2 I wish not so, vnlesse it had bin the fall of an Asse,\nwhich is no great hurt\nClot. You'l go with vs?\n1 Ile attend your Lordship\nClot. Nay come, let's go together\n2 Well my Lord.\nExeunt.\nScena Quarta.\nEnter Imogen, and Pisanio.\nImo. I would thou grew'st vnto the shores o'th' Hauen,\nAnd questioned'st euery Saile: if he should write,\nAnd I not haue it, 'twere a Paper lost\nAs offer'd mercy is: What was the last\nThat he spake to thee?\nPisa. It was his Queene, his Queene\nImo. Then wau'd his Handkerchiefe?\nPisa. And kist it, Madam\nImo. Senselesse Linnen, happier therein then I:\nAnd that was all?\nPisa. No Madam: for so long\nAs he could make me with his eye, or eare,\nDistinguish him from others, he did keepe\nThe Decke, with Gloue, or Hat, or Handkerchife,\nStill wauing, as the fits and stirres of's mind\nCould best expresse how slow his Soule sayl'd on,\nHow swift his Ship\nImo. Thou should'st haue made him\nAs little as a Crow, or lesse, ere left\nTo after-eye him\nPisa. Madam, so I did\nImo. I would haue broke mine eye-strings;\nCrack'd them, but to looke vpon him, till the diminution\nOf space, had pointed him sharpe as my Needle:\nNay, followed him, till he had melted from\nThe smalnesse of a Gnat, to ayre: and then\nHaue turn'd mine eye, and wept. But good Pisanio,\nWhen shall we heare from him\nPisa. Be assur'd Madam,\nWith his next vantage\nImo. I did not take my leaue of him, but had\nMost pretty things to say: Ere I could tell him\nHow I would thinke on him at certaine houres,\nSuch thoughts, and such: Or I could make him sweare,\nThe Shees of Italy should not betray\nMine Interest, and his Honour: or haue charg'd him\nAt the sixt houre of Morne, at Noone, at Midnight,\nT' encounter me with Orisons, for then\nI am in Heauen for him: Or ere I could,\nGiue him that parting kisse, which I had set\nBetwixt two charming words, comes in my Father,\nAnd like the Tyrannous breathing of the North,\nShakes all our buddes from growing.\nEnter a Lady.\nLa. The Queene (Madam)\nDesires your Highnesse Company\nImo. Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch'd,\nI will attend the Queene\nPisa. Madam, I shall.\nExeunt.\nScena Quinta.\nEnter Philario, Iachimo: a Frenchman, a Dutchman, and a\nSpaniard.\nIach. Beleeue it Sir, I haue seene him in Britaine; hee\nwas then of a Cressent note, expected to proue so woorthy,\nas since he hath beene allowed the name of. But I\ncould then haue look'd on him, without the help of Admiration,\nthough the Catalogue of his endowments had\nbin tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by Items\nPhil. You speake of him when he was lesse furnish'd,\nthen now hee is, with that which makes him both without,\nand within\nFrench. I haue seene him in France: wee had very many\nthere, could behold the Sunne, with as firme eyes as\nhee\nIach. This matter of marrying his Kings Daughter,\nwherein he must be weighed rather by her valew, then\nhis owne, words him (I doubt not) a great deale from the\nmatter\nFrench. And then his banishment\nIach. I, and the approbation of those that weepe this\nlamentable diuorce vnder her colours, are wonderfully\nto extend him, be it but to fortifie her iudgement, which\nelse an easie battery might lay flat, for taking a Begger\nwithout lesse quality. But how comes it, he is to soiourne\nwith you? How creepes acquaintance?\nPhil. His Father and I were Souldiers together, to\nwhom I haue bin often bound for no lesse then my life.\nEnter Posthumus.\nHeere comes the Britaine. Let him be so entertained among'st\nyou, as suites with Gentlemen of your knowing,\nto a Stranger of his quality. I beseech you all be better\nknowne to this Gentleman, whom I commend to you,\nas a Noble Friend of mine. How Worthy he is, I will\nleaue to appeare hereafter, rather then story him in his\nowne hearing\nFrench. Sir, we haue knowne togither in Orleance\nPost. Since when, I haue bin debtor to you for courtesies,\nwhich I will be euer to pay, and yet pay still\nFrench. Sir, you o're-rate my poore kindnesse, I was\nglad I did attone my Countryman and you: it had beene\npitty you should haue beene put together, with so mortall\na purpose, as then each bore, vpon importance of so\nslight and triuiall a nature\nPost. By your pardon Sir, I was then a young Traueller,\nrather shun'd to go euen with what I heard, then in\nmy euery action to be guided by others experiences: but\nvpon my mended iudgement (if I offend to say it is mended)\nmy Quarrell was not altogether slight\nFrench. Faith yes, to be put to the arbiterment of\nSwords, and by such two, that would by all likelyhood\nhaue confounded one the other, or haue falne both\nIach. Can we with manners, aske what was the difference?\nFrench. Safely, I thinke, 'twas a contention in publicke,\nwhich may (without contradiction) suffer the report.\nIt was much like an argument that fell out last\nnight, where each of vs fell in praise of our Country-Mistresses.\nThis Gentleman, at that time vouching (and\nvpon warrant of bloody affirmation) his to be more\nFaire, Vertuous, Wise, Chaste, Constant, Qualified, and\nlesse attemptible then any, the rarest of our Ladies in\nFraunce\nIach. That Lady is not now liuing; or this Gentlemans\nopinion by this, worne out\nPost. She holds her Vertue still, and I my mind\nIach. You must not so farre preferre her, 'fore ours of\nItaly\nPosth. Being so farre prouok'd as I was in France: I\nwould abate her nothing, though I professe my selfe her\nAdorer, not her Friend\nIach. As faire, and as good: a kind of hand in hand\ncomparison, had beene something too faire, and too\ngood for any Lady in Britanie; if she went before others.\nI haue seene as that Diamond of yours out-lusters many\nI haue beheld, I could not beleeue she excelled many:\nbut I haue not seene the most pretious Diamond that is,\nnor you the Lady\nPost. I prais'd her, as I rated her: so do I my Stone\nIach. What do you esteeme it at?\nPost. More then the world enioyes\nIach. Either your vnparagon'd Mistris is dead, or\nshe's out-priz'd by a trifle\nPost. You are mistaken: the one may be solde or giuen,\nor if there were wealth enough for the purchases, or\nmerite for the guift. The other is not a thing for sale,\nand onely the guift of the Gods\nIach. Which the Gods haue giuen you?\nPost. Which by their Graces I will keepe\nIach. You may weare her in title yours: but you\nknow strange Fowle light vpon neighbouring Ponds.\nYour Ring may be stolne too, so your brace of vnprizeable\nEstimations, the one is but fraile, and the other Casuall;\nA cunning Thiefe, or a (that way) accomplish'd\nCourtier, would hazzard the winning both of first and\nlast\nPost. Your Italy, containes none so accomplish'd a\nCourtier to conuince the Honour of my Mistris: if in the\nholding or losse of that, you terme her fraile, I do nothing\ndoubt you haue store of Theeues, notwithstanding\nI feare not my Ring\nPhil. Let vs leaue heere, Gentlemen?\nPost. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy Signior I\nthanke him, makes no stranger of me, we are familiar at\nfirst\nIach. With fiue times so much conuersation, I should\nget ground of your faire Mistris; make her go backe, euen\nto the yeilding, had I admittance, and opportunitie\nto friend\nPost. No, no\nIach. I dare thereupon pawne the moytie of my Estate,\nto your Ring, which in my opinion o're-values it\nsomething: but I make my wager rather against your\nConfidence, then her Reputation. And to barre your offence\nheerein to, I durst attempt it against any Lady in\nthe world\nPost. You are a great deale abus'd in too bold a perswasion,\nand I doubt not you sustaine what y'are worthy\nof, by your Attempt\nIach. What's that?\nPosth. A Repulse though your Attempt (as you call\nit) deserue more; a punishment too\nPhi. Gentlemen enough of this, it came in too sodainely,\nlet it dye as it was borne, and I pray you be better\nacquainted\nIach. Would I had put my Estate, and my Neighbors\non th' approbation of what I haue spoke\nPost. What Lady would you chuse to assaile?\nIach. Yours, whom in constancie you thinke stands\nso safe. I will lay you ten thousands Duckets to your\nRing, that commend me to the Court where your Lady\nis, with no more aduantage then the opportunitie of a\nsecond conference, and I will bring from thence, that\nHonor of hers, which you imagine so reseru'd\nPosthmus. I will wage against your Gold, Gold to\nit: My Ring I holde deere as my finger, 'tis part of\nit\nIach. You are a Friend, and there in the wiser: if you\nbuy Ladies flesh at a Million a Dram, you cannot preserue\nit from tainting; but I see you haue some Religion\nin you, that you feare\nPosthu. This is but a custome in your tongue: you\nbeare a grauer purpose I hope\nIach. I am the Master of my speeches, and would vnder-go\nwhat's spoken, I sweare\nPosthu. Will you? I shall but lend my Diamond till\nyour returne: let there be Couenants drawne between's.\nMy Mistris exceedes in goodnesse, the hugenesse of your\nvnworthy thinking. I dare you to this match: heere's my\nRing\nPhil. I will haue it no lay\nIach. By the Gods it is one: if I bring you no sufficient\ntestimony that I haue enioy'd the deerest bodily\npart of your Mistris: my ten thousand Duckets are yours,\nso is your Diamond too: if I come off, and leaue her in\nsuch honour as you haue trust in; Shee your Iewell, this\nyour Iewell, and my Gold are yours: prouided, I haue\nyour commendation, for my more free entertainment\nPost. I embrace these Conditions, let vs haue Articles\nbetwixt vs: onely thus farre you shall answere, if you\nmake your voyage vpon her, and giue me directly to vnderstand,\nyou haue preuayl'd, I am no further your Enemy,\nshee is not worth our debate. If shee remaine vnseduc'd,\nyou not making it appeare otherwise: for your ill\nopinion, and th' assault you haue made to her chastity, you\nshall answer me with your Sword\nIach. Your hand, a Couenant: wee will haue these\nthings set downe by lawfull Counsell, and straight away\nfor Britaine, least the Bargaine should catch colde, and\nsterue: I will fetch my Gold, and haue our two Wagers\nrecorded\nPost. Agreed\nFrench. Will this hold, thinke you\nPhil. Signior Iachimo will not from it.\nPray let vs follow 'em.\nExeunt.\nScena Sexta.\nEnter Queene, Ladies, and Cornelius.\nQu. Whiles yet the dewe's on ground,\nGather those Flowers,\nMake haste. Who ha's the note of them?\nLady. I Madam\nQueen. Dispatch.\nExit Ladies.\nNow Master Doctor, haue you brought those drugges?\nCor. Pleaseth your Highnes, I: here they are, Madam:\nBut I beseech your Grace, without offence\n(My Conscience bids me aske) wherefore you haue\nCommanded of me these most poysonous Compounds,\nWhich are the moouers of a languishing death:\nBut though slow, deadly\nQu. I wonder, Doctor,\nThou ask'st me such a Question: Haue I not bene\nThy Pupill long? Hast thou not learn'd me how\nTo make Perfumes? Distill? Preserue? Yea so,\nThat our great King himselfe doth woo me oft\nFor my Confections? Hauing thus farre proceeded,\n(Vnlesse thou think'st me diuellish) is't not meete\nThat I did amplifie my iudgement in\nOther Conclusions? I will try the forces\nOf these thy Compounds, on such Creatures as\nWe count not worth the hanging (but none humane)\nTo try the vigour of them, and apply\nAllayments to their Act, and by them gather\nTheir seuerall vertues, and effects\nCor. Your Highnesse\nShall from this practise, but make hard your heart:\nBesides, the seeing these effects will be\nBoth noysome, and infectious\nQu. O content thee.\nEnter Pisanio.\nHeere comes a flattering Rascall, vpon him\nWill I first worke: Hee's for his Master,\nAnd enemy to my Sonne. How now Pisanio?\nDoctor, your seruice for this time is ended,\nTake your owne way\nCor. I do suspect you, Madam,\nBut you shall do no harme\nQu. Hearke thee, a word\nCor. I do not like her. She doth thinke she ha's\nStrange ling'ring poysons: I do know her spirit,\nAnd will not trust one of her malice, with\nA drugge of such damn'd Nature. Those she ha's,\nWill stupifie and dull the Sense a-while,\nWhich first (perchance) shee'l proue on Cats and Dogs,\nThen afterward vp higher: but there is\nNo danger in what shew of death it makes,\nMore then the locking vp the Spirits a time,\nTo be more fresh, reuiuing. She is fool'd\nWith a most false effect: and I, the truer,\nSo to be false with her\nQu. No further seruice, Doctor,\nVntill I send for thee\nCor. I humbly take my leaue.\nEnter.\nQu. Weepes she still (saist thou?)\nDost thou thinke in time\nShe will not quench, and let instructions enter\nWhere Folly now possesses? Do thou worke:\nWhen thou shalt bring me word she loues my Sonne,\nIle tell thee on the instant, thou art then\nAs great as is thy Master: Greater, for\nHis Fortunes all lye speechlesse, and his name\nIs at last gaspe. Returne he cannot, nor\nContinue where he is: To shift his being,\nIs to exchange one misery with another,\nAnd euery day that comes, comes to decay\nA dayes worke in him. What shalt thou expect\nTo be depender on a thing that leanes?\nWho cannot be new built, nor ha's no Friends\nSo much, as but to prop him? Thou tak'st vp\nThou know'st not what: But take it for thy labour,\nIt is a thing I made, which hath the King\nFiue times redeem'd from death. I do not know\nWhat is more Cordiall. Nay, I prythee take it,\nIt is an earnest of a farther good\nThat I meane to thee. Tell thy Mistris how\nThe case stands with her: doo't, as from thy selfe;\nThinke what a chance thou changest on, but thinke\nThou hast thy Mistris still, to boote, my Sonne,\nWho shall take notice of thee. Ile moue the King\nTo any shape of thy Preferment, such\nAs thou'lt desire: and then my selfe, I cheefely,\nThat set thee on to this desert, am bound\nTo loade thy merit richly. Call my women.\nExit Pisa.\nThinke on my words. A slye, and constant knaue,\nNot to be shak'd: the Agent for his Master,\nAnd the Remembrancer of her, to hold\nThe hand-fast to her Lord. I haue giuen him that,\nWhich if he take, shall quite vnpeople her\nOf Leidgers for her Sweete: and which, she after\nExcept she bend her humor, shall be assur'd\nTo taste of too.\nEnter Pisanio, and Ladies.\nSo, so: Well done, well done:\nThe Violets, Cowslippes, and the Prime-Roses\nBeare to my Closset: Fare thee well, Pisanio.\nThinke on my words.\nExit Qu. and Ladies\nPisa. And shall do:\nBut when to my good Lord, I proue vntrue,\nIle choake my selfe: there's all Ile do for you.\nEnter.\nScena Septima.\nEnter Imogen alone.\nImo. A Father cruell, and a Stepdame false,\nA Foolish Suitor to a Wedded-Lady,\nThat hath her Husband banish'd: O, that Husband,\nMy supreame Crowne of griefe, and those repeated\nVexations of it. Had I bin Theefe-stolne,\nAs my two Brothers, happy: but most miserable\nIs the desires that's glorious. Blessed be those\nHow meane so ere, that haue their honest wills,\nWhich seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fye.\nEnter Pisanio, and Iachimo.\nPisa. Madam, a Noble Gentleman of Rome,\nComes from my Lord with Letters\nIach. Change you, Madam:\nThe Worthy Leonatus is in safety,\nAnd greetes your Highnesse deerely\nImo. Thanks good Sir,\nYou're kindly welcome\nIach. All of her, that is out of doore, most rich:\nIf she be furnish'd with a mind so rare\nShe is alone th' Arabian-Bird; and I\nHaue lost the wager. Boldnesse be my Friend:\nArme me Audacitie from head to foote,\nOr like the Parthian I shall flying fight,\nRather directly fly\nImogen reads. He is one of the Noblest note, to whose\nkindnesses I am\nmost infinitely\ntied. Reflect vpon him accordingly, as you value your\ntrust. Leonatus.\nSo farre I reade aloud.\nBut euen the very middle of my heart\nIs warm'd by'th' rest, and take it thankefully.\nYou are as welcome (worthy Sir) as I\nHaue words to bid you, and shall finde it so\nIn all that I can do\nIach. Thankes fairest Lady:\nWhat are men mad? Hath Nature giuen them eyes\nTo see this vaulted Arch, and the rich Crop\nOf Sea and Land, which can distinguish 'twixt\nThe firie Orbes aboue, and the twinn'd Stones\nVpon the number'd Beach, and can we not\nPartition make with Spectacles so pretious\nTwixt faire, and foule?\nImo. What makes your admiration?\nIach. It cannot be i'th' eye: for Apes, and Monkeys\n'Twixt two such She's, would chatter this way, and\nContemne with mowes the other. Nor i'th' iudgment:\nFor Idiots in this case of fauour, would\nBe wisely definit: Nor i'th' Appetite.\nSluttery to such neate Excellence, oppos'd\nShould make desire vomit emptinesse,\nNot so allur'd to feed\nImo. What is the matter trow?\nIach. The Cloyed will:\nThat satiate yet vnsatisfi'd desire, that Tub\nBoth fill'd and running: Rauening first the Lambe,\nLongs after for the Garbage\nImo. What, deere Sir,\nThus rap's you? Are you well?\nIach. Thanks Madam well: Beseech you Sir,\nDesire my Man's abode, where I did leaue him:\nHe's strange and peeuish\nPisa. I was going Sir,\nTo giue him welcome.\nEnter.\nImo. Continues well my Lord?\nHis health beseech you?\nIach. Well, Madam\nImo. Is he dispos'd to mirth? I hope he is\nIach. Exceeding pleasant: none a stranger there,\nSo merry, and so gamesome: he is call'd\nThe Britaine Reueller\nImo. When he was heere\nHe did incline to sadnesse, and oft times\nNot knowing why\nIach. I neuer saw him sad.\nThere is a Frenchman his Companion, one\nAn eminent Monsieur, that it seemes much loues\nA Gallian-Girle at home. He furnaces\nThe thicke sighes from him; whiles the iolly Britaine,\n(Your Lord I meane) laughes from's free lungs: cries oh,\nCan my sides hold, to think that man who knowes\nBy History, Report, or his owne proofe\nWhat woman is, yea what she cannot choose\nBut must be: will's free houres languish:\nFor assured bondage?\nImo. Will my Lord say so?\nIach. I Madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter,\nIt is a Recreation to be by\nAnd heare him mocke the Frenchman:\nBut Heauen's know some men are much too blame\nImo. Not he I hope\nIach. Not he:\nBut yet Heauen's bounty towards him, might\nBe vs'd more thankfully. In himselfe 'tis much;\nIn you, which I account his beyond all Talents.\nWhil'st I am bound to wonder, I am bound\nTo pitty too\nImo. What do you pitty Sir?\nIach. Two Creatures heartyly\nImo. Am I one Sir?\nYou looke on me: what wrack discerne you in me\nDeserues your pitty?\nIach. Lamentable: what\nTo hide me from the radiant Sun, and solace\nI'th' Dungeon by a Snuffe\nImo. I pray you Sir,\nDeliuer with more opennesse your answeres\nTo my demands. Why do you pitty me?\nIach. That others do,\n(I was about to say) enioy your- but\nIt is an office of the Gods to venge it,\nNot mine to speake on't\nImo. You do seeme to know\nSomething of me, or what concernes me; pray you\nSince doubting things go ill, often hurts more\nThen to be sure they do. For Certainties\nEither are past remedies; or timely knowing,\nThe remedy then borne. Discouer to me\nWhat both you spur and stop\nIach. Had I this cheeke\nTo bathe my lips vpon: this hand, whose touch,\n(Whose euery touch) would force the Feelers soule\nTo'th' oath of loyalty. This obiect, which\nTakes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,\nFiering it onely heere, should I (damn'd then)\nSlauuer with lippes as common as the stayres\nThat mount the Capitoll: Ioyne gripes, with hands\nMade hard with hourely falshood (falshood as\nWith labour:) then by peeping in an eye\nBase and illustrious as the smoakie light\nThat's fed with stinking Tallow: it were fit\nThat all the plagues of Hell should at one time\nEncounter such reuolt\nImo. My Lord, I feare\nHas forgot Brittaine\nIach. And himselfe, not I\nInclin'd to this intelligence, pronounce\nThe Beggery of his change: but 'tis your Graces\nThat from my mutest Conscience, to my tongue,\nCharmes this report out\nImo. Let me heare no more\nIach. O deerest Soule: your Cause doth strike my hart\nWith pitty, that doth make me sicke. A Lady\nSo faire, and fasten'd to an Emperie\nWould make the great'st King double, to be partner'd\nWith Tomboyes hyr'd, with that selfe exhibition\nWhich your owne Coffers yeeld: with diseas'd ventures\nThat play with all Infirmities for Gold,\nWhich rottennesse can lend Nature. Such boyl'd stuffe\nAs well might poyson Poyson. Be reueng'd,\nOr she that bore you, was no Queene, and you\nRecoyle from your great Stocke\nImo. Reueng'd:\nHow should I be reueng'd? If this be true,\n(As I haue such a Heart, that both mine eares\nMust not in haste abuse) if it be true,\nHow should I be reueng'd?\nIach. Should he make me\nLiue like Diana's Priest, betwixt cold sheets,\nWhiles he is vaulting variable Rampes\nIn your despight, vpon your purse: reuenge it.\nI dedicate my selfe to your sweet pleasure,\nMore Noble then that runnagate to your bed,\nAnd will continue fast to your Affection,\nStill close, as sure\nImo. What hoa, Pisanio?\nIach. Let me my seruice tender on your lippes\nImo. Away, I do condemne mine eares, that haue\nSo long attended thee. If thou wert Honourable\nThou would'st haue told this tale for Vertue, not\nFor such an end thou seek'st, as base, as strange:\nThou wrong'st a Gentleman, who is as farre\nFrom thy report, as thou from Honor: and\nSolicites heere a Lady, that disdaines\nThee, and the Diuell alike. What hoa, Pisanio?\nThe King my Father shall be made acquainted\nOf thy Assault: if he shall thinke it fit,\nA sawcy Stranger in his Court, to Mart\nAs in a Romish Stew, and to expound\nHis beastly minde to vs; he hath a Court\nHe little cares for, and a Daughter, who\nHe not respects at all. What hoa, Pisanio?\nIach. O happy Leonatus I may say,\nThe credit that thy Lady hath of thee\nDeserues thy trust, and thy most perfect goodnesse\nHer assur'd credit. Blessed liue you long,\nA Lady to the worthiest Sir, that euer\nCountry call'd his; and you his Mistris, onely\nFor the most worthiest fit. Giue me your pardon,\nI haue spoke this to know if your Affiance\nWere deeply rooted, and shall make your Lord,\nThat which he is, new o're: And he is one\nThe truest manner'd: such a holy Witch,\nThat he enchants Societies into him:\nHalfe all men hearts are his\nImo. You make amends\nIach. He sits 'mongst men, like a defended God;\nHe hath a kinde of Honor sets him off,\nMore then a mortall seeming. Be not angrie\n(Most mighty Princesse) that I haue aduentur'd\nTo try your taking of a false report, which hath\nHonour'd with confirmation your great Iudgement,\nIn the election of a Sir, so rare,\nWhich you know, cannot erre. The loue I beare him,\nMade me to fan you thus, but the Gods made you\n(Vnlike all others) chaffelesse. Pray your pardon\nImo. All's well Sir:\nTake my powre i'th' Court for yours\nIach. My humble thankes: I had almost forgot\nT' intreat your Grace, but in a small request,\nAnd yet of moment too, for it concernes:\nYour Lord, my selfe, and other Noble Friends\nAre partners in the businesse\nImo. Pray what is't?\nIach. Some dozen Romanes of vs, and your Lord\n(The best Feather of our wing) haue mingled summes\nTo buy a Present for the Emperor:\nWhich I (the Factor for the rest) haue done\nIn France: 'tis Plate of rare deuice, and Iewels\nOf rich, and exquisite forme, their valewes great,\nAnd I am something curious, being strange\nTo haue them in safe stowage: May it please you\nTo take them in protection\nImo. Willingly:\nAnd pawne mine Honor for their safety, since\nMy Lord hath interest in them, I will keepe them\nIn my Bed-chamber\nIach. They are in a Trunke\nAttended by my men: I will make bold\nTo send them to you, onely for this night:\nI must aboord to morrow\nImo. O no, no\nIach. Yes I beseech: or I shall short my word\nBy length'ning my returne. From Gallia,\nI crost the Seas on purpose, and on promise\nTo see your Grace\nImo. I thanke you for your paines:\nBut not away to morrow\nIach. O I must Madam.\nTherefore I shall beseech you, if you please\nTo greet your Lord with writing, doo't to night,\nI haue out-stood my time, which is materiall\nTo'th' tender of our Present\nImo. I will write:\nSend your Trunke to me, it shall safe be kept,\nAnd truely yeelded you: you're very welcome.\nExeunt.\nActus Secundus. Scena Prima.\nEnter Clotten, and the two Lords.\nClot. Was there euer man had such lucke? when I kist\nthe Iacke vpon an vp-cast, to be hit away? I had a hundred\npound on't: and then a whorson Iacke-an-Apes,\nmust take me vp for swearing, as if I borrowed mine\noathes of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure\n1. What got he by that? you haue broke his pate\nwith your Bowle\n2. If his wit had bin like him that broke it: it would\nhaue run all out\nClot. When a Gentleman is dispos'd to sweare: it is\nnot for any standers by to curtall his oathes. Ha?\n2. No my Lord; nor crop the eares of them\nClot. Whorson dog: I gaue him satisfaction? would\nhe had bin one of my Ranke\n2. To haue smell'd like a Foole\nClot. I am not vext more at any thing in th' earth: a\npox on't I had rather not be so Noble as I am: they dare\nnot fight with me, because of the Queene my Mother:\neuery Iacke-Slaue hath his belly full of Fighting,\nand I must go vp and downe like a Cock, that no body\ncan match\n2. You are Cocke and Capon too, and you crow\nCock, with your combe on\nClot. Sayest thou?\n2. It is not fit your Lordship should vndertake euery\nCompanion, that you giue offence too\nClot. No, I know that: but it is fit I should commit\noffence to my inferiors\n2. I, it is fit for your Lordship onely\nClot. Why so I say\n1. Did you heere of a Stranger that's come to Court\nnight?\nClot. A Stranger, and I not know on't?\n2. He's a strange Fellow himselfe, and knowes it not\n1. There's an Italian come, and 'tis thought one of\nLeonatus Friends\nClot. Leonatus? A banisht Rascall; and he's another,\nwhatsoeuer he be. Who told you of this Stranger?\n1. One of your Lordships Pages\nClot. Is it fit I went to looke vpon him? Is there no\nderogation in't?\n2. You cannot derogate my Lord\nClot. Not easily I thinke\n2. You are a Foole graunted, therefore your Issues\nbeing foolish do not derogate\nClot. Come, Ile go see this Italian: what I haue lost\nto day at Bowles, Ile winne to night of him. Come: go\n2. Ile attend your Lordship.\nEnter.\nThat such a craftie Diuell as is his Mother\nShould yeild the world this Asse: A woman, that\nBeares all downe with her Braine, and this her Sonne,\nCannot take two from twenty for his heart,\nAnd leaue eighteene. Alas poore Princesse,\nThou diuine Imogen, what thou endur'st,\nBetwixt a Father by thy Step-dame gouern'd,\nA Mother hourely coyning plots: A Wooer,\nMore hatefull then the foule expulsion is\nOf thy deere Husband. Then that horrid Act\nOf the diuorce, heel'd make the Heauens hold firme\nThe walls of thy deere Honour. Keepe vnshak'd\nThat Temple thy faire mind, that thou maist stand\nT' enioy thy banish'd Lord: and this great Land.\nExeunt.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter Imogen, in her Bed, and a Lady.\nImo. Who's there? My woman: Helene?\nLa. Please you Madam\nImo. What houre is it?\nLady. Almost midnight, Madam\nImo. I haue read three houres then:\nMine eyes are weake,\nFold downe the leafe where I haue left: to bed.\nTake not away the Taper, leaue it burning:\nAnd if thou canst awake by foure o'th' clock,\nI prythee call me: Sleepe hath ceiz'd me wholly.\nTo your protection I commend me, Gods,\nFrom Fayries, and the Tempters of the night,\nGuard me beseech yee.\nSleepes.\nIachimo from the Trunke.\nIach. The Crickets sing, and mans ore-labor'd sense\nRepaires it selfe by rest: Our Tarquine thus\nDid softly presse the Rushes, ere he waken'd\nThe Chastitie he wounded. Cytherea,\nHow brauely thou becom'st thy Bed; fresh Lilly,\nAnd whiter then the Sheetes: that I might touch,\nBut kisse, one kisse. Rubies vnparagon'd,\nHow deerely they doo't: 'Tis her breathing that\nPerfumes the Chamber thus: the Flame o'th' Taper\nBowes toward her, and would vnder-peepe her lids.\nTo see th' inclosed Lights, now Canopied\nVnder these windowes, White and Azure lac'd\nWith Blew of Heauens owne tinct. But my designe.\nTo note the Chamber, I will write all downe,\nSuch, and such pictures: There the window, such\nTh' adornement of her Bed; the Arras, Figures,\nWhy such, and such: and the Contents o'th' Story.\nAh, but some naturall notes about her Body,\nAboue ten thousand meaner Moueables\nWould testifie, t' enrich mine Inuentorie.\nO sleepe, thou Ape of death, lye dull vpon her,\nAnd be her Sense but as a Monument,\nThus in a Chappell lying. Come off, come off;\nAs slippery as the Gordian-knot was hard.\n'Tis mine, and this will witnesse outwardly,\nAs strongly as the Conscience do's within:\nTo'th' madding of her Lord. On her left brest\nA mole Cinque-spotted: Like the Crimson drops\nI'th' bottome of a Cowslippe. Heere's a Voucher,\nStronger then euer Law could make; this Secret\nWill force him thinke I haue pick'd the lock, and t'ane\nThe treasure of her Honour. No more: to what end?\nWhy should I write this downe, that's riueted,\nScrew'd to my memorie. She hath bin reading late,\nThe Tale of Tereus, heere the leaffe's turn'd downe\nWhere Philomele gaue vp. I haue enough,\nTo'th' Truncke againe, and shut the spring of it.\nSwift, swift, you Dragons of the night, that dawning\nMay beare the Rauens eye: I lodge in feare,\nThough this a heauenly Angell: hell is heere.\nClocke strikes\nOne, two, three: time, time.\nEnter.\nScena Tertia.\nEnter Clotten, and Lords.\n1. Your Lordship is the most patient man in losse, the\nmost coldest that euer turn'd vp Ace\nClot. It would make any man cold to loose\n1. But not euery man patient after the noble temper\nof your Lordship; You are most hot, and furious when\nyou winne.\nWinning will put any man into courage: if I could get\nthis foolish Imogen, I should haue Gold enough: it's almost\nmorning, is't not?\n1 Day, my Lord\nClot. I would this Musicke would come: I am aduised\nto giue her Musicke a mornings, they say it will penetrate.\nEnter Musitians.\nCome on, tune: If you can penetrate her with your fingering,\nso: wee'l try with tongue too: if none will do, let\nher remaine: but Ile neuer giue o're. First, a very excellent\ngood conceyted thing; after a wonderful sweet aire,\nwith admirable rich words to it, and then let her consider.\nSONG.\nHearke, hearke, the Larke at Heauens gate sings,\nand Phoebus gins arise,\nHis Steeds to water at those Springs\non chalic'd Flowres that lyes:\nAnd winking Mary-buds begin to ope their Golden eyes\nWith euery thing that pretty is, my Lady sweet arise:\nArise, arise.\nSo, get you gone: if this penetrate, I will consider your\nMusicke the better: if it do not, it is a voyce in her eares\nwhich Horse-haires, and Calues-guts, nor the voyce of\nvnpaued Eunuch to boot, can neuer amend.\nEnter Cymbaline, and Queene.\n2 Heere comes the King\nClot. I am glad I was vp so late, for that's the reason\nI was vp so earely: he cannot choose but take this Seruice\nI haue done, fatherly. Good morrow to your Maiesty,\nand to my gracious Mother\nCym. Attend you here the doore of our stern daughter\nWill she not forth?\nClot. I haue assayl'd her with Musickes, but she vouchsafes\nno notice\nCym. The Exile of her Minion is too new,\nShe hath not yet forgot him, some more time\nMust weare the print of his remembrance on't,\nAnd then she's yours\nQu. You are most bound to'th' King,\nWho let's go by no vantages, that may\nPreferre you to his daughter: Frame your selfe\nTo orderly solicity, and be friended\nWith aptnesse of the season: make denials\nEncrease your Seruices: so seeme, as if\nYou were inspir'd to do those duties which\nYou tender to her: that you in all obey her,\nSaue when command to your dismission tends,\nAnd therein you are senselesse\nClot. Senselesse? Not so\nMes. So like you (Sir) Ambassadors from Rome;\nThe one is Caius Lucius\nCym. A worthy Fellow,\nAlbeit he comes on angry purpose now;\nBut that's no fault of his: we must receyue him\nAccording to the Honor of his Sender,\nAnd towards himselfe, his goodnesse fore-spent on vs\nWe must extend our notice: Our deere Sonne,\nWhen you haue giuen good morning to your Mistris,\nAttend the Queene, and vs, we shall haue neede\nT' employ you towards this Romane.\nCome our Queene.\nExeunt.\nClot. If she be vp, Ile speake with her: if not\nLet her lye still, and dreame: by your leaue hoa,\nI know her women are about her: what\nIf I do line one of their hands, 'tis Gold\nWhich buyes admittance (oft it doth) yea, and makes\nDiana's Rangers false themselues, yeeld vp\nTheir Deere to'th' stand o'th' Stealer: and 'tis Gold\nWhich makes the True-man kill'd, and saues the Theefe:\nNay, sometime hangs both Theefe, and True-man: what\nCan it not do, and vndoo? I will make\nOne of her women Lawyer to me, for\nI yet not vnderstand the case my selfe.\nBy your leaue.\nKnockes.\nEnter a Lady.\nLa. Who's there that knockes?\nClot. A Gentleman\nLa. No more\nClot. Yes, and a Gentlewomans Sonne\nLa. That's more\nThen some whose Taylors are as deere as yours,\nCan iustly boast of: what's your Lordships pleasure?\nClot. Your Ladies person, is she ready?\nLa. I, to keepe her Chamber\nClot. There is Gold for you,\nSell me your good report\nLa. How, my good name? or to report of you\nWhat I shall thinke is good. The Princesse.\nEnter Imogen.\nClot. Good morrow fairest, Sister your sweet hand\nImo. Good morrow Sir, you lay out too much paines\nFor purchasing but trouble: the thankes I giue,\nIs telling you that I am poore of thankes,\nAnd scarse can spare them\nClot. Still I sweare I loue you\nImo. If you but said so, 'twere as deepe with me:\nIf you sweare still, your recompence is still\nThat I regard it not\nClot. This is no answer\nImo. But that you shall not say, I yeeld being silent,\nI would not speake. I pray you spare me, 'faith\nI shall vnfold equall discourtesie\nTo your best kindnesse: one of your great knowing\nShould learne (being taught) forbearance\nClot. To leaue you in your madnesse, 'twere my sin,\nI will not\nImo. Fooles are not mad Folkes\nClot. Do you call me Foole?\nImo. As I am mad I do:\nIf you'l be patient, Ile no more be mad,\nThat cures vs both. I am much sorry (Sir)\nYou put me to forget a Ladies manners\nBy being so verball: and learne now, for all,\nThat I which know my heart, do heere pronounce\nBy th' very truth of it, I care not for you,\nAnd am so neere the lacke of Charitie\nTo accuse my selfe, I hate you: which I had rather\nYou felt, then make't my boast\nClot. You sinne against\nObedience, which you owe your Father, for\nThe Contract you pretend with that base Wretch,\nOne, bred of Almes, and foster'd with cold dishes,\nWith scraps o'th' Court: It is no Contract, none;\nAnd though it be allowed in meaner parties\n(Yet who then he more meane) to knit their soules\n(On whom there is no more dependancie\nBut Brats and Beggery) in selfe-figur'd knot,\nYet you are curb'd from that enlargement, by\nThe consequence o'th' Crowne, and must not foyle\nThe precious note of it; with a base Slaue,\nA Hilding for a Liuorie, a Squires Cloth,\nA Pantler; not so eminent\nImo. Prophane Fellow:\nWert thou the Sonne of Iupiter, and no more,\nBut what thou art besides: thou wer't too base,\nTo be his Groome: thou wer't dignified enough\nEuen to the point of Enuie. If 'twere made\nComparatiue for your Vertues, to be stil'd\nThe vnder Hangman of his Kingdome; and hated\nFor being prefer'd so well\nClot. The South-Fog rot him\nImo. He neuer can meete more mischance, then come\nTo be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st Garment\nThat euer hath but clipt his body; is dearer\nIn my respect, then all the Heires aboue thee,\nWere they all made such men: How now Pisanio?\nEnter Pisanio.\nClot. His Garments? Now the diuell\nImo. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently\nClot. His Garment?\nImo. I am sprighted with a Foole,\nFrighted, and angred worse: Go bid my woman\nSearch for a Iewell, that too casually\nHath left mine Arme: it was thy Masters. Shrew me\nIf I would loose it for a Reuenew,\nOf any Kings in Europe. I do think,\nI saw't this morning: Confident I am.\nLast night 'twas on mine Arme; I kiss'd it,\nI hope it be not gone, to tell my Lord\nThat I kisse aught but he\nPis. 'Twill not be lost\nImo. I hope so: go and search\nClot. You haue abus'd me:\nHis meanest Garment?\nImo. I, I said so Sir,\nIf you will make't an Action, call witnesse to't\nClot. I will enforme your Father\nImo. Your Mother too:\nShe's my good Lady; and will concieue, I hope\nBut the worst of me. So I leaue you Sir,\nTo'th' worst of discontent.\nEnter.\nClot. Ile be reueng'd:\nHis mean'st Garment? Well.\nEnter.\nScena Quarta.\nEnter Posthumus, and Philario.\nPost. Feare it not Sir: I would I were so sure\nTo winne the King, as I am bold, her Honour\nWill remaine her's\nPhil. What meanes do you make to him?\nPost. Not any: but abide the change of Time,\nQuake in the present winters state, and wish\nThat warmer dayes would come: In these fear'd hope\nI barely gratifie your loue; they fayling\nI must die much your debtor\nPhil. Your very goodnesse, and your company,\nOre-payes all I can do. By this your King,\nHath heard of Great Augustus: Caius Lucius,\nWill do's Commission throughly. And I think\nHee'le grant the Tribute: send th' Arrerages,\nOr looke vpon our Romaines, whose remembrance\nIs yet fresh in their griefe\nPost. I do beleeue\n(Statist though I am none, nor like to be)\nThat this will proue a Warre; and you shall heare\nThe Legion now in Gallia, sooner landed\nIn our not-fearing-Britaine, then haue tydings\nOf any penny Tribute paid. Our Countrymen\nAre men more order'd, then when Iulius Caesar\nSmil'd at their lacke of skill, but found their courage\nWorthy his frowning at. Their discipline,\n(Now wing-led with their courages) will make knowne\nTo their Approuers, they are People, such\nThat mend vpon the world.\nEnter Iachimo.\nPhi. See Iachimo\nPost. The swiftest Harts, haue posted you by land;\nAnd Windes of all the Corners kiss'd your Sailes,\nTo make your vessell nimble\nPhil. Welcome Sir\nPost. I hope the briefenesse of your answere, made\nThe speedinesse of your returne\nIachi. Your Lady,\nIs one of the fayrest that I haue look'd vpon\nPost. And therewithall the best, or let her beauty\nLooke thorough a Casement to allure false hearts,\nAnd be false with them\nIachi. Heere are Letters for you\nPost. Their tenure good I trust\nIach. 'Tis very like\nPost. Was Caius Lucius in the Britaine Court,\nWhen you were there?\nIach. He was expected then,\nBut not approach'd\nPost. All is well yet,\nSparkles this Stone as it was wont, or is't not\nToo dull for your good wearing?\nIach. If I haue lost it,\nI should haue lost the worth of it in Gold,\nIle make a iourney twice as farre, t' enioy\nA second night of such sweet shortnesse, which\nWas mine in Britaine, for the Ring is wonne\nPost. The Stones too hard to come by\nIach. Not a whit,\nYour Lady being so easy\nPost. Make note Sir\nYour losse, your Sport: I hope you know that we\nMust not continue Friends\nIach. Good Sir, we must\nIf you keepe Couenant: had I not brought\nThe knowledge of your Mistris home, I grant\nWe were to question farther; but I now\nProfesse my selfe the winner of her Honor,\nTogether with your Ring; and not the wronger\nOf her, or you hauing proceeded but\nBy both your willes\nPost. If you can mak't apparant\nThat you haue tasted her in Bed; my hand,\nAnd Ring is yours. If not, the foule opinion\nYou had of her pure Honour; gaines, or looses,\nYour Sword, or mine, or Masterlesse leaue both\nTo who shall finde them\nIach. Sir, my Circumstances\nBeing so nere the Truth, as I will make them,\nMust first induce you to beleeue; whose strength\nI will confirme with oath, which I doubt not\nYou'l giue me leaue to spare, when you shall finde\nYou neede it not\nPost. Proceed\nIach. First, her Bed-chamber\n(Where I confesse I slept not, but professe\nHad that was well worth watching) it was hang'd\nWith Tapistry of Silke, and Siluer, the Story\nProud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman,\nAnd Sidnus swell'd aboue the Bankes, or for\nThe presse of Boates, or Pride. A peece of Worke\nSo brauely done, so rich, that it did striue\nIn Workemanship, and Value, which I wonder'd\nCould be so rarely, and exactly wrought\nSince the true life on't was-\nPost. This is true:\nAnd this you might haue heard of heere, by me,\nOr by some other\nIach. More particulars\nMust iustifie my knowledge\nPost. So they must,\nOr doe your Honour iniury\nIach. The Chimney\nIs South the Chamber, and the Chimney-peece\nChaste Dian, bathing: neuer saw I figures\nSo likely to report themselues; the Cutter\nWas as another Nature dumbe, out-went her,\nMotion, and Breath left out\nPost. This is a thing\nWhich you might from Relation likewise reape,\nBeing, as it is, much spoke of\nIach. The Roofe o'th' Chamber,\nWith golden Cherubins is fretted. Her Andirons\n(I had forgot them) were two winking Cupids\nOf Siluer, each on one foote standing, nicely\nDepending on their Brands\nPost. This is her Honor:\nLet it be granted you haue seene all this (and praise\nBe giuen to your remembrance) the description\nOf what is in her Chamber, nothing saues\nThe wager you haue laid\nIach. Then if you can\nBe pale, I begge but leaue to ayre this Iewell: See,\nAnd now 'tis vp againe: it must be married\nTo that your Diamond, Ile keepe them\nPost. Ioue-\nOnce more let me behold it: Is it that\nWhich I left with her?\nIach. Sir (I thanke her) that\nShe stript it from her Arme: I see her yet:\nHer pretty Action, did out-sell her guift,\nAnd yet enrich'd it too: she gaue it me,\nAnd said, she priz'd it once\nPost. May be, she pluck'd it off\nTo send it me\nIach. She writes so to you? doth shee?\nPost. O no, no, no, 'tis true. Heere, take this too,\nIt is a Basiliske vnto mine eye,\nKilles me to looke on't: Let there be no Honor,\nWhere there is Beauty: Truth, where semblance: Loue,\nWhere there's another man. The Vowes of Women,\nOf no more bondage be, to where they are made,\nThen they are to their Vertues, which is nothing:\nO, aboue measure false\nPhil. Haue patience Sir,\nAnd take your Ring againe, 'tis not yet wonne:\nIt may be probable she lost it: or\nWho knowes if one her women, being corrupted\nHath stolne it from her\nPost. Very true,\nAnd so I hope he came by't: backe my Ring,\nRender to me some corporall signe about her\nMore euident then this: for this was stolne\nIach. By Iupiter, I had it from her Arme\nPost. Hearke you, he sweares: by Iupiter he sweares.\n'Tis true, nay keepe the Ring; 'tis true: I am sure\nShe would not loose it: her Attendants are\nAll sworne, and honourable: they induc'd to steale it?\nAnd by a Stranger? No, he hath enioy'd her,\nThe Cognisance of her incontinencie\nIs this: she hath bought the name of Whore, thus deerly\nThere, take thy hyre, and all the Fiends of Hell\nDiuide themselues betweene you\nPhil. Sir, be patient:\nThis is not strong enough to be beleeu'd\nOf one perswaded well of\nPost. Neuer talke on't:\nShe hath bin colted by him\nIach. If you seeke\nFor further satisfying, vnder her Breast\n(Worthy her pressing) lyes a Mole, right proud\nOf that most delicate Lodging. By my life\nI kist it, and it gaue me present hunger\nTo feede againe, though full. You do remember\nThis staine vpon her?\nPost. I, and it doth confirme\nAnother staine, as bigge as Hell can hold,\nWere there no more but it\nIach. Will you heare more?\nPost. Spare your Arethmaticke,\nNeuer count the Turnes: Once, and a Million\nIach. Ile be sworne\nPost. No swearing:\nIf you will sweare you haue not done't, you lye,\nAnd I will kill thee, if thou do'st deny\nThou'st made me Cuckold\nIach. Ile deny nothing\nPost. O that I had her heere, to teare her Limb-meale:\nI will go there and doo't, i'th' Court, before\nHer Father. Ile do something.\nEnter.\nPhil. Quite besides\nThe gouernment of Patience. You haue wonne:\nLet's follow him, and peruert the present wrath\nHe hath against himselfe\nIach. With all my heart.\nExeunt.\nEnter Posthumus.\nPost. Is there no way for Men to be, but Women\nMust be halfe-workers? We are all Bastards,\nAnd that most venerable man, which I\nDid call my Father, was, I know not where\nWhen I was stampt. Some Coyner with his Tooles\nMade me a counterfeit: yet my Mother seem'd\nThe Dian of that time: so doth my Wife\nThe Non-pareill of this. Oh Vengeance, Vengeance!\nMe of my lawfull pleasure she restrain'd,\nAnd pray'd me oft forbearance: did it with\nA pudencie so Rosie, the sweet view on't\nMight well haue warm'd olde Saturne;\nThat I thought her\nAs Chaste, as vn-Sunn'd Snow. Oh, all the Diuels!\nThis yellow Iachimo in an houre, was't not?\nOr lesse; at first? Perchance he spoke not, but\nLike a full Acorn'd Boare, a Iarmen on,\nCry'de oh, and mounted; found no opposition\nBut what he look'd for, should oppose, and she\nShould from encounter guard. Could I finde out\nThe Womans part in me, for there's no motion\nThat tends to vice in man, but I affirme\nIt is the Womans part: be it Lying, note it,\nThe womans: Flattering, hers; Deceiuing, hers:\nLust, and ranke thoughts, hers, hers: Reuenges hers:\nAmbitions, Couetings, change of Prides, Disdaine,\nNice-longing, Slanders, Mutability;\nAll Faults that name, nay, that Hell knowes,\nWhy hers, in part, or all: but rather all. For euen to Vice\nThey are not constant, but are changing still;\nOne Vice, but of a minute old, for one\nNot halfe so old as that. Ile write against them,\nDetest them, curse them: yet 'tis greater Skill\nIn a true Hate, to pray they haue their will:\nThe very Diuels cannot plague them better.\nEnter.\nActus Tertius. Scena Prima.\nEnter in State, Cymbeline, Queene, Clotten, and Lords at one\ndoore, and at\nanother, Caius, Lucius; and Attendants.\nCym. Now say, what would Augustus Caesar with vs?\nLuc. When Iulius Caesar (whose remembrance yet\nLiues in mens eyes, and will to Eares and Tongues\nBe Theame, and hearing euer) was in this Britain,\nAnd Conquer'd it, Cassibulan thine Vnkle\n(Famous in Caesars prayses, no whit lesse\nThen in his Feats deseruing it) for him,\nAnd his Succession, granted Rome a Tribute,\nYeerely three thousand pounds; which (by thee) lately\nIs left vntender'd\nQu. And to kill the meruaile,\nShall be so euer\nClot. There be many Caesars,\nEre such another Iulius: Britaine's a world\nBy it selfe, and we will nothing pay\nFor wearing our owne Noses\nQu. That opportunity\nWhich then they had to take from's, to resume\nWe haue againe. Remember Sir, my Liege,\nThe Kings your Ancestors, together with\nThe naturall brauery of your Isle, which stands\nAs Neptunes Parke, ribb'd, and pal'd in\nWith Oakes vnskaleable, and roaring Waters,\nWith Sands that will not beare your Enemies Boates,\nBut sucke them vp to'th' Top-mast. A kinde of Conquest\nCaesar made heere, but made not heere his bragge\nOf Came, and Saw, and Ouer-came: with shame\n(The first that euer touch'd him) he was carried\nFrom off our Coast, twice beaten: and his Shipping\n(Poore ignorant Baubles) on our terrible Seas\nLike Egge-shels mou'd vpon their Surges, crack'd\nAs easily 'gainst our Rockes. For ioy whereof,\nThe fam'd Cassibulan, who was once at point\n(Oh giglet Fortune) to master Caesars Sword,\nMade Luds-Towne with reioycing-Fires bright,\nAnd Britaines strut with Courage\nClot. Come, there's no more Tribute to be paid: our\nKingdome is stronger then it was at that time: and (as I\nsaid) there is no mo such Caesars, other of them may haue\ncrook'd Noses, but to owe such straite Armes, none\nCym. Son, let your Mother end\nClot. We haue yet many among vs, can gripe as hard\nas Cassibulan, I doe not say I am one: but I haue a hand.\nWhy Tribute? Why should we pay Tribute? If Caesar\ncan hide the Sun from vs with a Blanket, or put the Moon\nin his pocket, we will pay him Tribute for light: else Sir,\nno more Tribute, pray you now\nCym. You must know,\nTill the iniurious Romans, did extort\nThis Tribute from vs, we were free. Caesars Ambition,\nWhich swell'd so much, that it did almost stretch\nThe sides o'th' World, against all colour heere,\nDid put the yoake vpon's; which to shake off\nBecomes a warlike people, whom we reckon\nOur selues to be, we do. Say then to Caesar,\nOur Ancestor was that Mulmutius, which\nOrdain'd our Lawes, whose vse the Sword of Caesar\nHath too much mangled; whose repayre, and franchise,\nShall (by the power we hold) be our good deed,\nTho Rome be therfore angry. Mulmutius made our lawes\nWho was the first of Britaine, which did put\nHis browes within a golden Crowne, and call'd\nHimselfe a King\nLuc. I am sorry Cymbeline,\nThat I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar\n(Caesar, that hath moe Kings his Seruants, then\nThy selfe Domesticke Officers) thine Enemy:\nReceyue it from me then. Warre, and Confusion\nIn Caesars name pronounce I 'gainst thee: Looke\nFor fury, not to be resisted. Thus defide,\nI thanke thee for my selfe\nCym. Thou art welcome Caius,\nThy Caesar Knighted me; my youth I spent\nMuch vnder him; of him, I gather'd Honour,\nWhich he, to seeke of me againe, perforce,\nBehooues me keepe at vtterance. I am perfect,\nThat the Pannonians and Dalmatians, for\nTheir Liberties are now in Armes: a President\nWhich not to reade, would shew the Britaines cold:\nSo Caesar shall not finde them\nLuc. Let proofe speake\nClot. His Maiesty biddes you welcome. Make pastime\nwith vs, a day, or two, or longer: if you seek vs afterwards\nin other tearmes, you shall finde vs in our Saltwater-Girdle:\nif you beate vs out of it, it is yours: if you\nfall in the aduenture, our Crowes shall fare the better for\nyou: and there's an end\nLuc. So sir\nCym. I know your Masters pleasure, and he mine:\nAll the Remaine, is welcome.\nExeunt.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter Pisanio reading of a Letter.\nPis. How? of Adultery? Wherefore write you not\nWhat Monsters her accuse? Leonatus:\nOh Master, what a strange infection\nIs falne into thy eare? What false Italian,\n(As poysonous tongu'd, as handed) hath preuail'd\nOn thy too ready hearing? Disloyall? No.\nShe's punish'd for her Truth; and vndergoes\nMore Goddesse-like, then Wife-like; such Assaults\nAs would take in some Vertue. Oh my Master,\nThy mind to her, is now as lowe, as were\nThy Fortunes. How? That I should murther her,\nVpon the Loue, and Truth, and Vowes; which I\nHaue made to thy command? I her? Her blood?\nIf it be so, to do good seruice, neuer\nLet me be counted seruiceable. How looke I,\nThat I should seeme to lacke humanity,\nSo much as this Fact comes to? Doo't: The Letter.\nThat I haue sent her, by her owne command,\nShall giue thee opportunitie. Oh damn'd paper,\nBlacke as the Inke that's on thee: senselesse bauble,\nArt thou a Foedarie for this Act; and look'st\nSo Virgin-like without? Loe here she comes.\nEnter Imogen.\nI am ignorant in what I am commanded\nImo. How now Pisanio?\nPis. Madam, heere is a Letter from my Lord\nImo. Who, thy Lord? That is my Lord Leonatus?\nOh, learn'd indeed were that Astronomer\nThat knew the Starres, as I his Characters,\nHeel'd lay the Future open. You good Gods,\nLet what is heere contain'd, rellish of Loue,\nOf my Lords health, of his content: yet not\nThat we two are asunder, let that grieue him;\nSome griefes are medcinable, that is one of them,\nFor it doth physicke Loue, of his content,\nAll but in that. Good Wax, thy leaue: blest be\nYou Bees that make these Lockes of counsaile. Louers,\nAnd men in dangerous Bondes pray not alike,\nThough Forfeytours you cast in prison, yet\nYou claspe young Cupids Tables: good Newes Gods.\nIustice and your Fathers wrath (should he take me in his\nDominion) could not be so cruell to me, as you: (oh the deerest\nof Creatures) would euen renew me with your eyes. Take\nnotice that I am in Cambria at Milford-Hauen: what your\nowne Loue, will out of this aduise you, follow. So he wishes you\nall happinesse, that remaines loyall to his Vow, and your\nencreasing\nin Loue. Leonatus Posthumus.\nOh for a Horse with wings: Hear'st thou Pisanio?\nHe is at Milford-Hauen: Read, and tell me\nHow farre 'tis thither. If one of meane affaires\nMay plod it in a weeke, why may not I\nGlide thither in a day? Then true Pisanio,\nWho long'st like me, to see thy Lord; who long'st\n(Oh let me bate) but not like me: yet long'st\nBut in a fainter kinde. Oh not like me:\nFor mine's beyond, beyond: say, and speake thicke\n(Loues Counsailor should fill the bores of hearing,\nTo'th' smothering of the Sense) how farre it is\nTo this same blessed Milford. And by'th' way\nTell me how Wales was made so happy, as\nT' inherite such a Hauen. But first of all,\nHow we may steale from hence: and for the gap\nThat we shall make in Time, from our hence-going,\nAnd our returne, to excuse: but first, how get hence.\nWhy should excuse be borne or ere begot?\nWeele talke of that heereafter. Prythee speake,\nHow many store of Miles may we well rid\nTwixt houre, and houre?\nPis. One score 'twixt Sun, and Sun,\nMadam's enough for you: and too much too\nImo. Why, one that rode to's Execution Man,\nCould neuer go so slow: I haue heard of Riding wagers,\nWhere Horses haue bin nimbler then the Sands\nThat run i'th' Clocks behalfe. But this is Foolrie,\nGo, bid my Woman faigne a Sicknesse, say\nShe'le home to her Father; and prouide me presently\nA Riding Suit: No costlier then would fit\nA Franklins Huswife\nPisa. Madam, you're best consider\nImo. I see before me (Man) nor heere, nor heere;\nNor what ensues but haue a Fog in them\nThat I cannot looke through. Away, I prythee,\nDo as I bid thee: There's no more to say:\nAccessible is none but Milford way.\nExeunt.\nScena Tertia.\nEnter Belarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus.\nBel. A goodly day, not to keepe house with such,\nWhose Roofe's as lowe as ours: Sleepe Boyes, this gate\nInstructs you how t' adore the Heauens; and bowes you\nTo a mornings holy office. The Gates of Monarches\nAre Arch'd so high, that Giants may iet through\nAnd keepe their impious Turbonds on, without\nGood morrow to the Sun. Haile thou faire Heauen,\nWe house i'th' Rocke, yet vse thee not so hardly\nAs prouder liuers do\nGuid. Haile Heauen\nAruir. Haile Heauen\nBela. Now for our Mountaine sport, vp to yond hill\nYour legges are yong: Ile tread these Flats. Consider,\nWhen you aboue perceiue me like a Crow,\nThat it is Place, which lessen's, and sets off,\nAnd you may then reuolue what Tales, I haue told you,\nOf Courts, of Princes; of the Tricks in Warre.\nThis Seruice, is not Seruice; so being done,\nBut being so allowed. To apprehend thus,\nDrawes vs a profit from all things we see:\nAnd often to our comfort, shall we finde\nThe sharded-Beetle, in a safer hold\nThen is the full-wing'd Eagle. Oh this life,\nIs Nobler, then attending for a checke:\nRicher, then doing nothing for a Babe:\nProuder, then rustling in vnpayd-for Silke:\nSuch gaine the Cap of him, that makes him fine,\nYet keepes his Booke vncros'd: no life to ours\nGui. Out of your proofe you speak: we poore vnfledg'd\nHaue neuer wing'd from view o'th' nest; nor knowes not\nWhat Ayre's from home. Hap'ly this life is best,\n(If quiet life be best) sweeter to you\nThat haue a sharper knowne. Well corresponding\nWith your stiffe Age; but vnto vs, it is\nA Cell of Ignorance: trauailing a bed,\nA Prison, or a Debtor, that not dares\nTo stride a limit\nArui. What should we speake of\nWhen we are old as you? When we shall heare\nThe Raine and winde beate darke December? How\nIn this our pinching Caue, shall we discourse\nThe freezing houres away? We haue seene nothing:\nWe are beastly; subtle as the Fox for prey,\nLike warlike as the Wolfe, for what we eate:\nOur Valour is to chace what flyes: Our Cage\nWe make a Quire, as doth the prison'd Bird,\nAnd sing our Bondage freely\nBel. How you speake.\nDid you but know the Citties Vsuries,\nAnd felt them knowingly: the Art o'th' Court,\nAs hard to leaue, as keepe: whose top to climbe\nIs certaine falling: or so slipp'ry, that\nThe feare's as bad as falling. The toyle o'th' Warre,\nA paine that onely seemes to seeke out danger\nI'th' name of Fame, and Honor, which dyes i'th' search,\nAnd hath as oft a sland'rous Epitaph,\nAs Record of faire Act. Nay, many times\nDoth ill deserue, by doing well: what's worse\nMust curt'sie at the Censure. Oh Boyes, this Storie\nThe World may reade in me: My bodie's mark'd\nWith Roman Swords; and my report, was once\nFirst, with the best of Note. Cymbeline lou'd me,\nAnd when a Souldier was the Theame, my name\nWas not farre off: then was I as a Tree\nWhose boughes did bend with fruit. But in one night,\nA Storme, or Robbery (call it what you will)\nShooke downe my mellow hangings: nay my Leaues,\nAnd left me bare to weather\nGui. Vncertaine fauour\nBel. My fault being nothing (as I haue told you oft)\nBut that two Villaines, whose false Oathes preuayl'd\nBefore my perfect Honor, swore to Cymbeline,\nI was Confederate with the Romanes: so\nFollowed my Banishment, and this twenty yeeres,\nThis Rocke, and these Demesnes, haue bene my World,\nWhere I haue liu'd at honest freedome, payed\nMore pious debts to Heauen, then in all\nThe fore-end of my time. But, vp to'th' Mountaines,\nThis is not Hunters Language; he that strikes\nThe Venison first, shall be the Lord o'th' Feast,\nTo him the other two shall minister,\nAnd we will feare no poyson, which attends\nIn place of greater State:\nIle meete you in the Valleyes.\nExeunt.\nHow hard it is to hide the sparkes of Nature?\nThese Boyes know little they are Sonnes to'th' King,\nNor Cymbeline dreames that they are aliue.\nThey thinke they are mine,\nAnd though train'd vp thus meanely\nI'th' Caue, whereon the Bowe their thoughts do hit,\nThe Roofes of Palaces, and Nature prompts them\nIn simple and lowe things, to Prince it, much\nBeyond the tricke of others. This Paladour,\nThe heyre of Cymbeline and Britaine, who\nThe King his Father call'd Guiderius. Ioue,\nWhen on my three-foot stoole I sit, and tell\nThe warlike feats I haue done, his spirits flye out\nInto my Story: say thus mine Enemy fell,\nAnd thus I set my foote on's necke, euen then\nThe Princely blood flowes in his Cheeke, he sweats,\nStraines his yong Nerues, and puts himselfe in posture\nThat acts my words. The yonger Brother Cadwall,\nOnce Aruiragus, in as like a figure\nStrikes life into my speech, and shewes much more\nHis owne conceyuing. Hearke, the Game is rows'd,\nOh Cymbeline, Heauen and my Conscience knowes\nThou didd'st vniustly banish me: whereon\nAt three, and two yeeres old, I stole these Babes,\nThinking to barre thee of Succession, as\nThou refts me of my Lands. Euriphile,\nThou was't their Nurse, they took thee for their mother,\nAnd euery day do honor to her graue:\nMy selfe Belarius, that am Mergan call'd\nThey take for Naturall Father. The Game is vp.\nEnter.\nScena Quarta.\nEnter Pisanio and Imogen.\nImo. Thou told'st me when we came fro[m] horse, y place\nWas neere at hand: Ne're long'd my Mother so\nTo see me first, as I haue now. Pisanio, Man:\nWhere is Posthumus? What is in thy mind\nThat makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh\nFrom th' inward of thee? One, but painted thus\nWould be interpreted a thing perplex'd\nBeyond selfe-explication. Put thy selfe\nInto a hauiour of lesse feare, ere wildnesse\nVanquish my stayder Senses. What's the matter?\nWhy render'st thou that Paper to me, with\nA looke vntender? If't be Summer Newes\nSmile too't before: if Winterly, thou need'st\nBut keepe that count'nance stil. My Husbands hand?\nThat Drug-damn'd Italy, hath out-craftied him,\nAnd hee's at some hard point. Speake man, thy Tongue\nMay take off some extreamitie, which to reade\nWould be euen mortall to me\nPis. Please you reade,\nAnd you shall finde me (wretched man) a thing\nThe most disdain'd of Fortune\nImogen reades. Thy Mistris (Pisanio) hath plaide the Strumpet in\nmy\nBed: the Testimonies whereof, lyes bleeding in me. I speak\nnot out of weake Surmises, but from proofe as strong as my\ngreefe, and as certaine as I expect my Reuenge. That part, thou\n(Pisanio) must acte for me, if thy Faith be not tainted with the\nbreach of hers; let thine owne hands take away her life: I shall\ngiue thee opportunity at Milford Hauen. She hath my Letter\nfor the purpose; where, if thou feare to strike, and to make mee\ncertaine it is done, thou art the Pander to her dishonour, and\nequally to me disloyall\nPis. What shall I need to draw my Sword, the Paper\nHath cut her throat alreadie? No, 'tis Slander,\nWhose edge is sharper then the Sword, whose tongue\nOut-venomes all the Wormes of Nyle, whose breath\nRides on the posting windes, and doth belye\nAll corners of the World. Kings, Queenes, and States,\nMaides, Matrons, nay the Secrets of the Graue\nThis viperous slander enters. What cheere, Madam?\nImo. False to his Bed? What is it to be false?\nTo lye in watch there, and to thinke on him?\nTo weepe 'twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge Nature,\nTo breake it with a fearfull dreame of him,\nAnd cry my selfe awake? That's false to's bed? Is it?\nPisa. Alas good Lady\nImo. I false? Thy Conscience witnesse: Iachimo,\nThou didd'st accuse him of Incontinencie,\nThou then look'dst like a Villaine: now, me thinkes\nThy fauours good enough. Some Iay of Italy\n(Whose mother was her painting) hath betraid him:\nPoore I am stale, a Garment out of fashion,\nAnd for I am richer then to hang by th' walles,\nI must be ript: To peeces with me: Oh!\nMens Vowes are womens Traitors. All good seeming\nBy thy reuolt (oh Husband) shall be thought\nPut on for Villainy; not borne where't growes,\nBut worne a Baite for Ladies\nPisa. Good Madam, heare me\nImo. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas,\nWere in his time thought false: and Synons weeping\nDid scandall many a holy teare: tooke pitty\nFrom most true wretchednesse. So thou, Posthumus\nWilt lay the Leauen on all proper men;\nGoodly, and gallant, shall be false and periur'd\nFrom thy great faile: Come Fellow, be thou honest,\nDo thou thy Masters bidding. When thou seest him,\nA little witnesse my obedience. Looke\nI draw the Sword my selfe, take it, and hit\nThe innocent Mansion of my Loue (my Heart:)\nFeare not, 'tis empty of all things, but Greefe:\nThy Master is not there, who was indeede\nThe riches of it. Do his bidding, strike,\nThou mayst be valiant in a better cause;\nBut now thou seem'st a Coward\nPis. Hence vile Instrument,\nThou shalt not damne my hand\nImo. Why, I must dye:\nAnd if I do not by thy hand, thou art\nNo Seruant of thy Masters. Against Selfe-slaughter,\nThere is a prohibition so Diuine,\nThat crauens my weake hand: Come, heere's my heart:\nSomething's a-foot: Soft, soft, wee'l no defence,\nObedient as the Scabbard. What is heere,\nThe Scriptures of the Loyall Leonatus,\nAll turn'd to Heresie? Away, away\nCorrupters of my Faith, you shall no more\nBe Stomachers to my heart: thus may pooru Fooles\nBeleeue false Teachers: Though those that are betraid\nDo feele the Treason sharpely, yet the Traitor\nStands in worse case of woe. And thou Posthumus,\nThat didd'st set vp my disobedience 'gainst the King\nMy Father, and makes me put into contempt the suites\nOf Princely Fellowes, shalt heereafter finde\nIt is no acte of common passage, but\nA straine of Rarenesse: and I greeue my selfe,\nTo thinke, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her,\nThat now thou tyrest on, how thy memory\nWill then be pang'd by me. Prythee dispatch,\nThe Lambe entreats the Butcher. Wher's thy knife?\nThou art too slow to do thy Masters bidding\nWhen I desire it too\nPis. Oh gracious Lady:\nSince I receiu'd command to do this businesse,\nI haue not slept one winke\nImo. Doo't, and to bed then\nPis. Ile wake mine eye-balles first\nImo. Wherefore then\nDidd'st vndertake it? Why hast thou abus'd\nSo many Miles, with a pretence? This place?\nMine Action? and thine owne? Our Horses labour?\nThe Time inuiting thee? The perturb'd Court\nFor my being absent? whereunto I neuer\nPurpose returne. Why hast thou gone so farre\nTo be vn-bent? when thou hast 'tane thy stand,\nTh' elected Deere before thee?\nPis. But to win time\nTo loose so bad employment, in the which\nI haue consider'd of a course: good Ladie\nHeare me with patience\nImo. Talke thy tongue weary, speake:\nI haue heard I am a Strumpet, and mine eare\nTherein false strooke, can take no greater wound,\nNor tent, to bottome that. But speake\nPis. Then Madam,\nI thought you would not backe againe\nImo. Most like,\nBringing me heere to kill me\nPis. Not so neither:\nBut if I were as wise, as honest, then\nMy purpose would proue well: it cannot be,\nBut that my Master is abus'd. Some Villaine,\nI, and singular in his Art, hath done you both\nThis cursed iniurie\nImo. Some Roman Curtezan?\nPisa. No, on my life:\nIle giue but notice you are dead, and send him\nSome bloody signe of it. For 'tis commanded\nI should do so: you shall be mist at Court,\nAnd that will well confirme it\nImo. Why good Fellow,\nWhat shall I do the while? Where bide? How liue?\nOr in my life, what comfort, when I am\nDead to my Husband?\nPis. If you'l backe to'th' Court\nImo. No Court, no Father, nor no more adoe\nWith that harsh, noble, simple nothing:\nThat Clotten, whose Loue-suite hath bene to me\nAs fearefull as a Siege\nPis. If not at Court,\nThen not in Britaine must you bide\nImo. Where then?\nHath Britaine all the Sunne that shines? Day? Night?\nAre they not but in Britaine? I'th' worlds Volume\nOur Britaine seemes as of it, but not in't:\nIn a great Poole, a Swannes-nest, prythee thinke\nThere's liuers out of Britaine\nPis. I am most glad\nYou thinke of other place: Th' Ambassador,\nLucius the Romane comes to Milford-Hauen\nTo morrow. Now, if you could weare a minde\nDarke, as your Fortune is, and but disguise\nThat which t' appeare it selfe, must not yet be,\nBut by selfe-danger, you should tread a course\nPretty, and full of view: yea, happily, neere\nThe residence of Posthumus; so nie (at least)\nThat though his Actions were not visible, yut\nReport should render him hourely to your eare,\nAs truely as he mooues\nImo. Oh for such meanes,\nThough perill to my modestie, not death on't\nI would aduenture\nPis. Well then, heere's the point:\nYou must forget to be a Woman: change\nCommand, into obedience. Feare, and Nicenesse\n(The Handmaides of all Women, or more truely\nWoman it pretty selfe) into a waggish courage,\nReady in gybes, quicke-answer'd, sawcie, and\nAs quarrellous as the Weazell: Nay, you must\nForget that rarest Treasure of your Cheeke,\nExposing it (but oh the harder heart,\nAlacke no remedy) to the greedy touch\nOf common-kissing Titan: and forget\nYour laboursome and dainty Trimmes, wherein\nYou made great Iuno angry\nImo. Nay be breefe?\nI see into thy end, and am almost\nA man already\nPis. First, make your selfe but like one,\nFore-thinking this. I haue already fit\n('Tis in my Cloake-bagge) Doublet, Hat, Hose, all\nThat answer to them: Would you in their seruing,\n(And with what imitation you can borrow\nFrom youth of such a season) 'fore Noble Lucius\nPresent your selfe, desire his seruice: tell him\nWherein you're happy; which will make him know,\nIf that his head haue eare in Musicke, doubtlesse\nWith ioy he will imbrace you: for hee's Honourable,\nAnd doubling that, most holy. Your meanes abroad:\nYou haue me rich, and I will neuer faile\nBeginning, nor supplyment\nImo. Thou art all the comfort\nThe Gods will diet me with. Prythee away,\nThere's more to be consider'd: but wee'l euen\nAll that good time will giue vs. This attempt,\nI am Souldier too, and will abide it with\nA Princes Courage. Away, I prythee\nPis. Well Madam, we must take a short farewell,\nLeast being mist, I be suspected of\nYour carriage from the Court. My Noble Mistris,\nHeere is a boxe, I had it from the Queene,\nWhat's in't is precious: If you are sicke at Sea,\nOr Stomacke-qualm'd at Land, a Dramme of this\nWill driue away distemper. To some shade,\nAnd fit you to your Manhood: may the Gods\nDirect you to the best\nImo. Amen: I thanke thee.\nExeunt.\nScena Quinta.\nEnter Cymbeline, Queene, Cloten, Lucius, and Lords.\nCym. Thus farre, and so farewell\nLuc. Thankes, Royall Sir:\nMy Emperor hath wrote, I must from hence,\nAnd am right sorry, that I must report ye\nMy Masters Enemy\nCym. Our Subiects (Sir)\nWill not endure his yoake; and for our selfe\nTo shew lesse Soueraignty then they, must needs\nAppeare vn-Kinglike\nLuc. So Sir: I desire of you\nA Conduct ouer Land, to Milford-Hauen.\nMadam, all ioy befall your Grace, and you\nCym. My Lords, you are appointed for that Office:\nThe due of Honor, in no point omit:\nSo farewell Noble Lucius\nLuc. Your hand, my Lord\nClot. Receiue it friendly: but from this time forth\nI weare it as your Enemy\nLuc. Sir, the Euent\nIs yet to name the winner. Fare you well\nCym. Leaue not the worthy Lucius, good my Lords\nTill he haue crost the Seuern. Happines.\nExit Lucius, &c\nQu. He goes hence frowning: but it honours vs\nThat we haue giuen him cause\nClot. 'Tis all the better,\nYour valiant Britaines haue their wishes in it\nCym. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor\nHow it goes heere. It fits vs therefore ripely\nOur Chariots, and our Horsemen be in readinesse:\nThe Powres that he already hath in Gallia\nWill soone be drawne to head, from whence he moues\nHis warre for Britaine\nQu. 'Tis not sleepy businesse,\nBut must be look'd too speedily, and strongly\nCym. Our expectation that it would be thus\nHath made vs forward. But my gentle Queene,\nWhere is our Daughter? She hath not appear'd\nBefore the Roman, nor to vs hath tender'd\nThe duty of the day. She looke vs like\nA thing more made of malice, then of duty,\nWe haue noted it. Call her before vs, for\nWe haue beene too slight in sufferance\nQu. Royall Sir,\nSince the exile of Posthumus, most retyr'd\nHath her life bin: the Cure whereof, my Lord,\n'Tis time must do. Beseech your Maiesty,\nForbeare sharpe speeches to her. Shee's a Lady\nSo tender of rebukes, that words are stroke;\nAnd strokes death to her.\nEnter a Messenger.\nCym. Where is she Sir? How\nCan her contempt be answer'd?\nMes. Please you Sir,\nHer Chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer\nThat will be giuen to'th' lowd of noise, we make\nQu. My Lord, when last I went to visit her,\nShe pray'd me to excuse her keeping close,\nWhereto constrain'd by her infirmitie,\nShe should that dutie leaue vnpaide to you\nWhich dayly she was bound to proffer: this\nShe wish'd me to make knowne: but our great Court\nMade me too blame in memory\nCym. Her doores lock'd?\nNot seene of late? Grant Heauens, that which I\nFeare, proue false.\nEnter.\nQu. Sonne, I say, follow the King\nClot. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old Seruant\nI haue not seene these two dayes.\nEnter.\nQu. Go, looke after:\nPisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus,\nHe hath a Drugge of mine: I pray, his absence\nProceed by swallowing that. For he beleeues\nIt is a thing most precious. But for her,\nWhere is she gone? Haply dispaire hath seiz'd her:\nOr wing'd with feruour of her loue, she's flowne\nTo her desir'd Posthumus: gone she is,\nTo death, or to dishonor, and my end\nCan make good vse of either. Shee being downe,\nI haue the placing of the Brittish Crowne.\nEnter Cloten.\nHow now, my Sonne?\nClot. 'Tis certaine she is fled:\nGo in and cheere the King, he rages, none\nDare come about him\nQu. All the better: may\nThis night fore-stall him of the comming day.\nExit Qu.\nClo. I loue, and hate her: for she's Faire and Royall,\nAnd that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite\nThen Lady, Ladies, Woman, from euery one\nThe best she hath, and she of all compounded\nOut-selles them all. I loue her therefore, but\nDisdaining me, and throwing Fauours on\nThe low Posthumus, slanders so her iudgement,\nThat what's else rare, is choak'd: and in that point\nI will conclude to hate her, nay indeede,\nTo be reueng'd vpon her. For, when Fooles shall-\nEnter Pisanio.\nWho is heere? What, are you packing sirrah?\nCome hither: Ah you precious Pandar, Villaine,\nWhere is thy Lady? In a word, or else\nThou art straightway with the Fiends\nPis. Oh, good my Lord\nClo. Where is thy Lady? Or, by Iupiter,\nI will not aske againe. Close Villaine,\nIle haue this Secret from thy heart, or rip\nThy heart to finde it. Is she with Posthumus?\nFrom whose so many waights of basenesse, cannot\nA dram of worth be drawne\nPis. Alas, nay Lord,\nHow can she be with him? When was she miss'd?\nHe is in Rome\nClot. Where is she Sir? Come neerer:\nNo farther halting: satisfie me home,\nWhat is become of her?\nPis. Oh, my all-worthy Lord\nClo. All-worthy Villaine,\nDiscouer where thy Mistris is, at once,\nAt the next word: no more of worthy Lord:\nSpeake, or thy silence on the instant, is\nThy condemnation, and thy death\nPis. Then Sir:\nThis Paper is the historie of my knowledge\nTouching her flight\nClo. Let's see't: I will pursue her\nEuen to Augustus Throne\nPis. Or this, or perish.\nShe's farre enough, and what he learnes by this,\nMay proue his trauell, not her danger\nClo. Humh\nPis. Ile write to my Lord she's dead: Oh Imogen,\nSafe mayst thou wander, safe returne agen\nClot. Sirra, is this Letter true?\nPis. Sir, as I thinke\nClot. It is Posthumus hand, I know't. Sirrah, if thou\nwould'st not be a Villain, but do me true seruice: vndergo\nthose Imployments wherin I should haue cause to vse\nthee with a serious industry, that is, what villainy soere I\nbid thee do to performe it, directly and truely, I would\nthinke thee an honest man: thou should'st neither want\nmy meanes for thy releefe, nor my voyce for thy preferment\nPis. Well, my good Lord\nClot. Wilt thou serue mee? For since patiently and\nconstantly thou hast stucke to the bare Fortune of that\nBegger Posthumus, thou canst not in the course of gratitude,\nbut be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serue\nmee?\nPis. Sir, I will\nClo. Giue mee thy hand, heere's my purse. Hast any\nof thy late Masters Garments in thy possession?\nPisan. I haue (my Lord) at my Lodging, the same\nSuite he wore, when he tooke leaue of my Ladie & Mistresse\nClo. The first seruice thou dost mee, fetch that Suite\nhither, let it be thy first seruice, go\nPis. I shall my Lord.\nEnter.\nClo. Meet thee at Milford-Hauen: (I forgot to aske\nhim one thing, Ile remember't anon:) euen there, thou\nvillaine Posthumus will I kill thee. I would these Garments\nwere come. She saide vpon a time (the bitternesse\nof it, I now belch from my heart) that shee held the very\nGarment of Posthumus, in more respect, then my Noble\nand naturall person; together with the adornement of\nmy Qualities. With that Suite vpon my backe wil I rauish\nher: first kill him, and in her eyes; there shall she see\nmy valour, which wil then be a torment to hir contempt.\nHe on the ground, my speech of insulment ended on his\ndead bodie, and when my Lust hath dined (which, as I\nsay, to vex her, I will execute in the Cloathes that she so\nprais'd:) to the Court Ile knock her backe, foot her home\nagaine. She hath despis'd mee reioycingly, and Ile bee\nmerry in my Reuenge.\nEnter Pisanio.\nBe those the Garments?\nPis. I, my Noble Lord\nClo. How long is't since she went to Milford-Hauen?\nPis. She can scarse be there yet\nClo. Bring this Apparrell to my Chamber, that is\nthe second thing that I haue commanded thee. The third\nis, that thou wilt be a voluntarie Mute to my designe. Be\nbut dutious, and true preferment shall tender it selfe to\nthee. My Reuenge is now at Milford, would I had wings\nto follow it. Come, and be true.\nExit\nPis. Thou bid'st me to my losse: for true to thee,\nWere to proue false, which I will neuer bee\nTo him that is most true. To Milford go,\nAnd finde not her, whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow\nYou Heauenly blessings on her: This Fooles speede\nBe crost with slownesse; Labour be his meede.\nExit\nScena Sexta.\nEnter Imogen alone.\nImo. I see a mans life is a tedious one,\nI haue tyr'd my selfe: and for two nights together\nHaue made the ground my bed. I should be sicke,\nBut that my resolution helpes me: Milford,\nWhen from the Mountaine top, Pisanio shew'd thee,\nThou was't within a kenne. Oh Ioue, I thinke\nFoundations flye the wretched: such I meane,\nWhere they should be releeu'd. Two Beggers told me,\nI could not misse my way. Will poore Folkes lye\nThat haue Afflictions on them, knowing 'tis\nA punishment, or Triall? Yes; no wonder,\nWhen Rich-ones scarse tell true. To lapse in Fulnesse\nIs sorer, then to lye for Neede: and Falshood\nIs worse in Kings, then Beggers. My deere Lord,\nThou art one o'th' false Ones: Now I thinke on thee,\nMy hunger's gone; but euen before, I was\nAt point to sinke, for Food. But what is this?\nHeere is a path too't: 'tis some sauage hold:\nI were best not call; I dare not call: yet Famine\nEre cleane it o're-throw Nature, makes it valiant.\nPlentie, and Peace breeds Cowards: Hardnesse euer\nOf Hardinesse is Mother. Hoa? who's heere?\nIf any thing that's ciuill, speake: if sauage,\nTake, or lend. Hoa? No answer? Then Ile enter.\nBest draw my Sword; and if mine Enemy\nBut feare the Sword like me, hee'l scarsely looke on't.\nSuch a Foe, good Heauens.\nEnter.\nScena Septima.\nEnter Belarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus\nBel. You Polidore haue prou'd best Woodman, and\nAre Master of the Feast: Cadwall, and I\nWill play the Cooke, and Seruant, 'tis our match:\nThe sweat of industry would dry, and dye\nBut for the end it workes too. Come, our stomackes\nWill make what's homely, sauoury: Wearinesse\nCan snore vpon the Flint, when restie Sloth\nFindes the Downe-pillow hard. Now peace be heere,\nPoore house, that keep'st thy selfe\nGui. I am throughly weary\nArui. I am weake with toyle, yet strong in appetite\nGui. There is cold meat i'th' Caue, we'l brouz on that\nWhil'st what we haue kill'd, be Cook'd\nBel. Stay, come not in:\nBut that it eates our victualles, I should thinke\nHeere were a Faiery\nGui. What's the matter, Sir?\nBel. By Iupiter an Angell: or if not\nAn earthly Paragon. Behold Diuinenesse\nNo elder then a Boy.\nEnter Imogen.\nImo. Good masters harme me not:\nBefore I enter'd heere, I call'd, and thought\nTo haue begg'd, or bought, what I haue took: good troth\nI haue stolne nought, nor would not, though I had found\nGold strew'd i'th' Floore. Heere's money for my Meate,\nI would haue left it on the Boord, so soone\nAs I had made my Meale; and parted\nWith Pray'rs for the Prouider\nGui. Money? Youth\nAru. All Gold and Siluer rather turne to durt,\nAs 'tis no better reckon'd, but of those\nWho worship durty Gods\nImo. I see you're angry:\nKnow, if you kill me for my fault, I should\nHaue dyed, had I not made it\nBel. Whether bound?\nImo. To Milford-Hauen\nBel. What's your name?\nImo. Fidele Sir: I haue a Kinsman, who\nIs bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford,\nTo whom being going, almost spent with hunger,\nI am falne in this offence\nBel. Prythee (faire youth)\nThinke vs no Churles: nor measure our good mindes\nBy this rude place we liue in. Well encounter'd,\n'Tis almost night, you shall haue better cheere\nEre you depart; and thankes to stay, and eate it:\nBoyes, bid him welcome\nGui. Were you a woman, youth,\nI should woo hard, but be your Groome in honesty:\nI bid for you, as I do buy\nArui. Ile make't my Comfort\nHe is a man, Ile loue him as my Brother:\nAnd such a welcome as I'ld giue to him\n(After long absence) such is yours. Most welcome:\nBe sprightly, for you fall 'mongst Friends\nImo. 'Mongst Friends?\nIf Brothers: would it had bin so, that they\nHad bin my Fathers Sonnes, then had my prize\nBin lesse, and so more equall ballasting\nTo thee Posthumus\nBel. He wrings at some distresse\nGui. Would I could free't\nArui. Or I, what ere it be,\nWhat paine it cost, what danger: Gods!\nBel. Hearke Boyes\nImo. Great men\nThat had a Court no bigger then this Caue,\nThat did attend themselues, and had the vertue\nWhich their owne Conscience seal'd them: laying by\nThat nothing-guift of differing Multitudes\nCould not out-peere these twaine. Pardon me Gods,\nI'ld change my sexe to be Companion with them,\nSince Leonatus false\nBel. It shall be so:\nBoyes wee'l go dresse our Hunt. Faire youth come in;\nDiscourse is heauy, fasting: when we haue supp'd\nWee'l mannerly demand thee of thy Story,\nSo farre as thou wilt speake it\nGui. Pray draw neere\nArui. The Night to'th' Owle,\nAnd Morne to th' Larke lesse welcome\nImo. Thankes Sir\nArui. I pray draw neere.\nExeunt.\nScena Octaua.\nEnter two Roman Senators, and Tribunes.\n1.Sen. This is the tenor of the Emperors Writ;\nThat since the common men are now in Action\n'Gainst the Pannonians, and Dalmatians,\nAnd that the Legions now in Gallia, are\nFull weake to vndertake our Warres against\nThe falne-off Britaines, that we do incite\nThe Gentry to this businesse. He creates\nLucius Pro-Consull: and to you the Tribunes\nFor this immediate Leuy, he commands\nHis absolute Commission. Long liue Caesar\nTri. Is Lucius Generall of the Forces?\n2.Sen. I\nTri. Remaining now in Gallia?\n1.Sen. With those Legions\nWhich I haue spoke of, whereunto your leuie\nMust be suppliant: the words of your Commission\nWill tye you to the numbers, and the time\nOf their dispatch\nTri. We will discharge our duty.\nExeunt.\nActus Quartus. Scena Prima.\nEnter Clotten alone.\nClot I am neere to'th' place where they should meet,\nif Pisanio haue mapp'd it truely. How fit his Garments\nserue me? Why should his Mistris who was made by him\nthat made the Taylor, not be fit too? The rather (sauing\nreuerence of the Word) for 'tis saide a Womans fitnesse\ncomes by fits: therein I must play the Workman, I dare\nspeake it to my selfe, for it is not Vainglorie for a man,\nand his Glasse, to confer in his owne Chamber; I meane,\nthe Lines of my body are as well drawne as his; no lesse\nyoung, more strong, not beneath him in Fortunes, beyond\nhim in the aduantage of the time, aboue him in\nBirth, alike conuersant in generall seruices, and more remarkeable\nin single oppositions; yet this imperseuerant\nThing loues him in my despight. What Mortalitie is?\nPosthumus, thy head (which now is growing vppon thy\nshoulders) shall within this houre be off, thy Mistris inforced,\nthy Garments cut to peeces before thy face: and\nall this done, spurne her home to her Father, who may\n(happily) be a little angry for my so rough vsage: but my\nMother hauing power of his testinesse, shall turne all into\nmy commendations. My Horse is tyed vp safe, out\nSword, and to a sore purpose: Fortune put them into my\nhand: This is the very description of their meeting place\nand the Fellow dares not deceiue me.\nEnter.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter Belarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, and Imogen from the Caue.\nBel. You are not well: Remaine heere in the Caue,\nWee'l come to you after Hunting\nArui. Brother, stay heere:\nAre we not Brothers?\nImo. So man and man should be,\nBut Clay and Clay, differs in dignitie,\nWhose dust is both alike. I am very sicke,\nGui. Go you to Hunting, Ile abide with him\nImo. So sicke I am not, yet I am not well:\nBut not so Citizen a wanton, as\nTo seeme to dye, ere sicke: So please you, leaue me,\nSticke to your Iournall course: the breach of Custome,\nIs breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me\nCannot amend me. Society, is no comfort\nTo one not sociable: I am not very sicke,\nSince I can reason of it: pray you trust me heere,\nIle rob none but my selfe, and let me dye\nStealing so poorely\nGui. I loue thee: I haue spoke it,\nHow much the quantity, the waight as much,\nAs I do loue my Father\nBel. What? How? how?\nArui. If it be sinne to say so (Sir) I yoake mee\nIn my good Brothers fault: I know not why\nI loue this youth, and I haue heard you say,\nLoue's reason's, without reason. The Beere at doore,\nAnd a demand who is't shall dye, I'ld say\nMy Father, not this youth\nBel. Oh noble straine!\nO worthinesse of Nature, breed of Greatnesse!\n``Cowards father Cowards, & Base things Syre Bace;\n``Nature hath Meale, and Bran; Contempt, and Grace.\nI'me not their Father, yet who this should bee,\nDoth myracle it selfe, lou'd before mee.\n'Tis the ninth houre o'th' Morne\nArui. Brother, farewell\nImo. I wish ye sport\nArui. You health. - So please you Sir\nImo. These are kinde Creatures.\nGods, what lyes I haue heard:\nOur Courtiers say, all's sauage, but at Court;\nExperience, oh thou disproou'st Report.\nTh' emperious Seas breeds Monsters; for the Dish,\nPoore Tributary Riuers, as sweet Fish:\nI am sicke still, heart-sicke; Pisanio,\nIle now taste of thy Drugge\nGui. I could not stirre him:\nHe said he was gentle, but vnfortunate;\nDishonestly afflicted, but yet honest\nArui. Thus did he answer me: yet said heereafter,\nI might know more\nBel. To'th' Field, to'th' Field:\nWee'l leaue you for this time, go in, and rest\nArui. Wee'l not be long away\nBel. Pray be not sicke,\nFor you must be our Huswife\nImo. Well, or ill,\nI am bound to you.\nEnter.\nBel. And shal't be euer.\nThis youth, how ere distrest, appeares he hath had\nGood Ancestors\nArui. How Angell-like he sings?\nGui. But his neate Cookerie?\nArui. He cut our Rootes in Charracters,\nAnd sawc'st our Brothes, as Iuno had bin sicke,\nAnd he her Dieter\nArui. Nobly he yoakes\nA smiling, with a sigh; as if the sighe\nWas that it was, for not being such a Smile:\nThe Smile, mocking the Sigh, that it would flye\nFrom so diuine a Temple, to commix\nWith windes, that Saylors raile at\nGui. I do note,\nThat greefe and patience rooted in them both,\nMingle their spurres together\nArui. Grow patient,\nAnd let the stinking-Elder (Greefe) vntwine\nHis perishing roote, with the encreasing Vine\nBel. It is great morning. Come away: Who's there?\nEnter Cloten.\nClo. I cannot finde those Runnagates, that Villaine\nHath mock'd me. I am faint\nBel. Those Runnagates?\nMeanes he not vs? I partly know him, 'tis\nCloten, the Sonne o'th' Queene. I feare some Ambush:\nI saw him not these many yeares, and yet\nI know 'tis he: We are held as Out-Lawes: Hence\nGui. He is but one: you, and my Brother search\nWhat Companies are neere: pray you away,\nLet me alone with him\nClot. Soft, what are you\nThat flye me thus? Some villaine-Mountainers?\nI haue heard of such. What Slaue art thou?\nGui. A thing\nMore slauish did I ne're, then answering\nA Slaue without a knocke\nClot. Thou art a Robber,\nA Law-breaker, a Villaine: yeeld thee Theefe\nGui. To who? to thee? What art thou? Haue not I\nAn arme as bigge as thine? A heart, as bigge:\nThy words I grant are bigger: for I weare not\nMy Dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art:\nWhy I should yeeld to thee?\nClot. Thou Villaine base,\nKnow'st me not by my Cloathes?\nGui. No, nor thy Taylor, Rascall:\nWho is thy Grandfather? He made those cloathes,\nWhich (as it seemes) make thee\nClo. Thou precious Varlet,\nMy Taylor made them not\nGui. Hence then, and thanke\nThe man that gaue them thee. Thou art some Foole,\nI am loath to beate thee\nClot. Thou iniurious Theefe,\nHeare but my name, and tremble\nGui. What's thy name?\nClo. Cloten, thou Villaine\nGui. Cloten, thou double Villaine be thy name,\nI cannot tremble at it, were it Toad, or Adder, Spider,\n'Twould moue me sooner\nClot. To thy further feare,\nNay, to thy meere Confusion, thou shalt know\nI am Sonne to'th' Queene\nGui. I am sorry for't: not seeming\nSo worthy as thy Birth\nClot. Art not afeard?\nGui. Those that I reuerence, those I feare: the Wise:\nAt Fooles I laugh: not feare them\nClot. Dye the death:\nWhen I haue slaine thee with my proper hand,\nIle follow those that euen now fled hence:\nAnd on the Gates of Luds-Towne set your heads:\nYeeld Rusticke Mountaineer.\nFight and Exeunt.\nEnter Belarius and Aruiragus.\nBel. No Companie's abroad?\nArui. None in the world: you did mistake him sure\nBel. I cannot tell: Long is it since I saw him,\nBut Time hath nothing blurr'd those lines of Fauour\nWhich then he wore: the snatches in his voice,\nAnd burst of speaking were as his: I am absolute\n'Twas very Cloten\nArui. In this place we left them;\nI wish my Brother make good time with him,\nYou say he is so fell\nBel. Being scarse made vp,\nI meane to man; he had not apprehension\nOf roaring terrors: For defect of iudgement\nIs oft the cause of Feare.\nEnter Guiderius.\nBut see thy Brother\nGui. This Cloten was a Foole, an empty purse,\nThere was no money in't: Not Hercules\nCould haue knock'd out his Braines, for he had none:\nYet I not doing this, the Foole had borne\nMy head, as I do his\nBel. What hast thou done?\nGui. I am perfect what: cut off one Clotens head,\nSonne to the Queene (after his owne report)\nWho call'd me Traitor, Mountaineer, and swore\nWith his owne single hand heel'd take vs in,\nDisplace our heads, where (thanks the Gods) they grow\nAnd set them on Luds-Towne\nBel. We are all vndone\nGui. Why, worthy Father, what haue we to loose,\nBut that he swore to take our Liues? the Law\nProtects not vs, then why should we be tender,\nTo let an arrogant peece of flesh threat vs?\nPlay Iudge, and Executioner, all himselfe?\nFor we do feare the Law. What company\nDiscouer you abroad?\nBel. No single soule\nCan we set eye on: but in all safe reason\nHe must haue some Attendants. Though his Honor\nWas nothing but mutation, I, and that\nFrom one bad thing to worse: Not Frenzie,\nNot absolute madnesse could so farre haue rau'd\nTo bring him heere alone: although perhaps\nIt may be heard at Court, that such as wee\nCaue heere, hunt heere, are Out-lawes, and in time\nMay make some stronger head, the which he hearing,\n(As it is like him) might breake out, and sweare\nHeel'd fetch vs in, yet is't not probable\nTo come alone, either he so vndertaking,\nOr they so suffering: then on good ground we feare,\nIf we do feare this Body hath a taile\nMore perillous then the head\nArui. Let Ord'nance\nCome as the Gods fore-say it: howsoere,\nMy Brother hath done well\nBel. I had no minde\nTo hunt this day: The Boy Fideles sickenesse\nDid make my way long forth\nGui. With his owne Sword,\nWhich he did waue against my throat, I haue tane\nHis head from him: Ile throw't into the Creeke\nBehinde our Rocke, and let it to the Sea,\nAnd tell the Fishes, hee's the Queenes Sonne, Cloten,\nThat's all I reake.\nEnter.\nBel. I feare 'twill be reueng'd:\nWould (Polidore) thou had'st not done't: though valour\nBecomes thee well enough\nArui. Would I had done't:\nSo the Reuenge alone pursu'de me: Polidore\nI loue thee brotherly, but enuy much\nThou hast robb'd me of this deed: I would Reuenges\nThat possible strength might meet, wold seek vs through\nAnd put vs to our answer\nBel. Well, 'tis done:\nWee'l hunt no more to day, nor seeke for danger\nWhere there's no profit. I prythee to our Rocke,\nYou and Fidele play the Cookes: Ile stay\nTill hasty Polidore returne, and bring him\nTo dinner presently\nArui. Poore sicke Fidele.\nIle willingly to him, to gaine his colour,\nIl'd let a parish of such Clotens blood,\nAnd praise my selfe for charity.\nEnter.\nBel. Oh thou Goddesse,\nThou diuine Nature; thou thy selfe thou blazon'st\nIn these two Princely Boyes: they are as gentle\nAs Zephires blowing below the Violet,\nNot wagging his sweet head; and yet, as rough\n(Their Royall blood enchaf'd) as the rud'st winde,\nThat by the top doth take the Mountaine Pine,\nAnd make him stoope to th' Vale. 'Tis wonder\nThat an inuisible instinct should frame them\nTo Royalty vnlearn'd, Honor vntaught,\nCiuility not seene from other: valour\nThat wildely growes in them, but yeelds a crop\nAs if it had beene sow'd: yet still it's strange\nWhat Clotens being heere to vs portends,\nOr what his death will bring vs.\nEnter Guidereus.\nGui. Where's my Brother?\nI haue sent Clotens Clot-pole downe the streame,\nIn Embassie to his Mother; his Bodie's hostage\nFor his returne.\nSolemn Musick.\nBel. My ingenuous Instrument,\n(Hearke Polidore) it sounds: but what occasion\nHath Cadwal now to giue it motion? Hearke\nGui. Is he at home?\nBel. He went hence euen now\nGui. What does he meane?\nSince death of my deer'st Mother\nIt did not speake before. All solemne things\nShould answer solemne Accidents. The matter?\nTriumphes for nothing, and lamenting Toyes,\nIs iollity for Apes, and greefe for Boyes.\nIs Cadwall mad?\nEnter Aruiragus, with Imogen dead, bearing her in his Armes.\nBel. Looke, heere he comes,\nAnd brings the dire occasion in his Armes,\nOf what we blame him for\nArui. The Bird is dead\nThat we haue made so much on. I had rather\nHaue skipt from sixteene yeares of Age, to sixty:\nTo haue turn'd my leaping time into a Crutch,\nThen haue seene this\nGui. Oh sweetest, fayrest Lilly:\nMy Brother weares thee not the one halfe so well,\nAs when thou grew'st thy selfe\nBel. Oh Melancholly,\nWho euer yet could sound thy bottome? Finde\nThe Ooze, to shew what Coast thy sluggish care\nMight'st easilest harbour in. Thou blessed thing,\nIoue knowes what man thou might'st haue made: but I,\nThou dyed'st a most rare Boy, of Melancholly.\nHow found you him?\nArui. Starke, as you see:\nThus smiling, as some Fly had tickled slumber,\nNot as deaths dart being laugh'd at: his right Cheeke\nReposing on a Cushion\nGui. Where?\nArui. O'th' floore:\nHis armes thus leagu'd, I thought he slept, and put\nMy clowted Brogues from off my feete, whose rudenesse\nAnswer'd my steps too lowd\nGui. Why, he but sleepes:\nIf he be gone, hee'l make his Graue, a Bed:\nWith female Fayries will his Tombe be haunted,\nAnd Wormes will not come to thee\nArui. With fayrest Flowers\nWhil'st Sommer lasts, and I liue heere, Fidele,\nIle sweeten thy sad graue: thou shalt not lacke\nThe Flower that's like thy face. Pale-Primrose, nor\nThe azur'd Hare-Bell, like thy Veines: no, nor\nThe leafe of Eglantine, whom not to slander,\nOut-sweetned not thy breath: the Raddocke would\nWith Charitable bill (Oh bill sore shaming\nThose rich-left-heyres, that let their Fathers lye\nWithout a Monument) bring thee all this,\nYea, and furr'd Mosse besides. When Flowres are none\nTo winter-ground thy Coarse-\nGui. Prythee haue done,\nAnd do not play in Wench-like words with that\nWhich is so serious. Let vs bury him,\nAnd not protract with admiration, what\nIs now due debt. To'th' graue\nArui. Say, where shall's lay him?\nGui. By good Euriphile, our Mother\nArui. Bee't so:\nAnd let vs (Polidore) though now our voyces\nHaue got the mannish cracke, sing him to'th' ground\nAs once to our Mother: vse like note, and words,\nSaue that Euriphile, must be Fidele\nGui. Cadwall,\nI cannot sing: Ile weepe, and word it with thee;\nFor Notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse\nThen Priests, and Phanes that lye\nArui. Wee'l speake it then\nBel. Great greefes I see med'cine the lesse: For Cloten\nIs quite forgot. He was a Queenes Sonne, Boyes,\nAnd though he came our Enemy, remember\nHe was paid for that: though meane, and mighty rotting\nTogether haue one dust, yet Reuerence\n(That Angell of the world) doth make distinction\nOf place 'tweene high, and low. Our Foe was Princely,\nAnd though you tooke his life, as being our Foe,\nYet bury him, as a Prince\nGui. Pray you fetch him hither,\nThersites body is as good as Aiax,\nWhen neyther are aliue\nArui. If you'l go fetch him,\nWee'l say our Song the whil'st: Brother begin\nGui. Nay Cadwall, we must lay his head to th' East,\nMy Father hath a reason for't\nArui. 'Tis true\nGui. Come on then, and remoue him\nArui. So, begin.\nSONG.\nGuid. Feare no more the heate o'th' Sun,\nNor the furious Winters rages,\nThou thy worldly task hast don,\nHome art gon, and tane thy wages.\nGolden Lads, and Girles all must,\nAs Chimney-Sweepers come to dust\nArui. Feare no more the frowne o'th' Great,\nThou art past the Tirants stroake,\nCare no more to cloath and eate,\nTo thee the Reede is as the Oake:\nThe Scepter, Learning, Physicke must,\nAll follow this and come to dust\nGuid. Feare no more the Lightning flash\nArui. Nor th' all-dreaded Thunderstone\nGui. Feare not Slander, Censure rash\nArui. Thou hast finish'd Ioy and mone\nBoth. All Louers young, all Louers must,\nConsigne to thee and come to dust\nGuid. No Exorcisor harme thee,\nArui. Nor no witch-craft charme thee\nGuid. Ghost vnlaid forbeare thee\nArui. Nothing ill come neere thee\nBoth. Quiet consumation haue,\nAnd renowned be thy graue.\nEnter Belarius with the body of Cloten.\nGui. We haue done our obsequies:\nCome lay him downe\nBel. Heere's a few Flowres, but 'bout midnight more:\nThe hearbes that haue on them cold dew o'th' night\nAre strewings fit'st for Graues: vpon their Faces.\nYou were as Flowres, now wither'd: euen so\nThese Herbelets shall, which we vpon you strew.\nCome on, away, apart vpon our knees:\nThe ground that gaue them first, ha's them againe:\nTheir pleasures here are past, so are their paine.\nExeunt.\nImogen awakes.\nYes Sir, to Milford-Hauen, which is the way?\nI thanke you: by yond bush? pray how farre thether?\n'Ods pittikins: can it be sixe mile yet?\nI haue gone all night: 'Faith, Ile lye downe, and sleepe.\nBut soft; no Bedfellow? Oh Gods, and Goddesses!\nThese Flowres are like the pleasures of the World;\nThis bloody man the care on't. I hope I dreame:\nFor so I thought I was a Caue-keeper,\nAnd Cooke to honest Creatures. But 'tis not so:\n'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot of nothing,\nWhich the Braine makes of Fumes. Our very eyes,\nAre sometimes like our Iudgements, blinde. Good faith\nI tremble still with feare: but if there be\nYet left in Heauen, as small a drop of pittie\nAs a Wrens eye; fear'd Gods, a part of it.\nThe Dreame's heere still: euen when I wake it is\nWithout me, as within me: not imagin'd, felt.\nA headlesse man? The Garments of Posthumus?\nI know the shape of's Legge: this is his Hand:\nHis Foote Mercuriall: his martiall Thigh\nThe brawnes of Hercules: but his Iouiall face-\nMurther in heauen? How? 'tis gone. Pisanio,\nAll Curses madded Hecuba gaue the Greekes,\nAnd mine to boot, be darted on thee: thou\nConspir'd with that Irregulous diuell Cloten,\nHath heere cut off my Lord. To write, and read,\nBe henceforth treacherous. Damn'd Pisanio,\nHath with his forged Letters (damn'd Pisanio)\nFrom this most brauest vessell of the world\nStrooke the maine top! Oh Posthumus, alas,\nWhere is thy head? where's that? Aye me! where's that?\nPisanio might haue kill'd thee at the heart,\nAnd left this head on. How should this be, Pisanio?\n'Tis he, and Cloten: Malice, and Lucre in them\nHaue laid this Woe heere. Oh 'tis pregnant, pregnant!\nThe Drugge he gaue me, which hee said was precious\nAnd Cordiall to me, haue I not found it\nMurd'rous to'th' Senses? That confirmes it home:\nThis is Pisanio's deede, and Cloten: Oh!\nGiue colour to my pale cheeke with thy blood,\nThat we the horrider may seeme to those\nWhich chance to finde vs. Oh, my Lord! my Lord!\nEnter Lucius, Captaines, and a Soothsayer.\nCap. To them, the Legions garrison'd in Gallia\nAfter your will, haue crost the Sea, attending\nYou heere at Milford-Hauen, with your Shippes:\nThey are heere in readinesse\nLuc. But what from Rome?\nCap. The Senate hath stirr'd vp the Confiners,\nAnd Gentlemen of Italy, most willing Spirits,\nThat promise Noble Seruice: and they come\nVnder the Conduct of bold Iachimo,\nSyenna's Brother\nLuc. When expect you them?\nCap. With the next benefit o'th' winde\nLuc. This forwardnesse\nMakes our hopes faire. Command our present numbers\nBe muster'd: bid the Captaines looke too't. Now Sir,\nWhat haue you dream'd of late of this warres purpose\nSooth. Last night, the very Gods shew'd me a vision\n(I fast, and pray'd for their Intelligence) thus:\nI saw Ioues Bird, the Roman Eagle wing'd\nFrom the spungy South, to this part of the West,\nThere vanish'd in the Sun-beames, which portends\n(Vnlesse my sinnes abuse my Diuination)\nSuccesse to th' Roman hoast\nLuc. Dreame often so,\nAnd neuer false. Soft hoa, what truncke is heere?\nWithout his top? The ruine speakes, that sometime\nIt was a worthy building. How? a Page?\nOr dead, or sleeping on him? But dead rather:\nFor Nature doth abhorre to make his bed\nWith the defunct, or sleepe vpon the dead.\nLet's see the Boyes face\nCap. Hee's aliue my Lord\nLuc. Hee'l then instruct vs of this body: Young one,\nInforme vs of thy Fortunes, for it seemes\nThey craue to be demanded: who is this\nThou mak'st thy bloody Pillow? Or who was he\nThat (otherwise then noble Nature did)\nHath alter'd that good Picture? What's thy interest\nIn this sad wracke? How came't? Who is't?\nWhat art thou?\nImo. I am nothing; or if not,\nNothing to be were better: This was my Master,\nA very valiant Britaine, and a good,\nThat heere by Mountaineers lyes slaine: Alas,\nThere is no more such Masters: I may wander\nFrom East to Occident, cry out for Seruice,\nTry many, all good: serue truly: neuer\nFinde such another Master\nLuc. 'Lacke, good youth:\nThou mou'st no lesse with thy complaining, then\nThy Maister in bleeding: say his name, good Friend\nImo. Richard du Champ: If I do lye, and do\nNo harme by it, though the Gods heare, I hope\nThey'l pardon it. Say you Sir?\nLuc. Thy name?\nImo. Fidele Sir\nLuc. Thou doo'st approue thy selfe the very same:\nThy Name well fits thy Faith; thy Faith, thy Name:\nWilt take thy chance with me? I will not say\nThou shalt be so well master'd, but be sure\nNo lesse belou'd. The Romane Emperors Letters\nSent by a Consull to me, should not sooner\nThen thine owne worth preferre thee: Go with me\nImo. Ile follow Sir. But first, and't please the Gods,\nIle hide my Master from the Flies, as deepe\nAs these poore Pickaxes can digge: and when\nWith wild wood-leaues & weeds, I ha' strew'd his graue\nAnd on it said a Century of prayers\n(Such as I can) twice o're, Ile weepe, and sighe,\nAnd leauing so his seruice, follow you,\nSo please you entertaine mee\nLuc. I good youth,\nAnd rather Father thee, then Master thee: My Friends,\nThe Boy hath taught vs manly duties: Let vs\nFinde out the prettiest Dazied-Plot we can,\nAnd make him with our Pikes and Partizans\nA Graue: Come, Arme him: Boy hee's preferr'd\nBy thee, to vs, and he shall be interr'd\nAs Souldiers can. Be cheerefull; wipe thine eyes,\nSome Falles are meanes the happier to arise.\nExeunt.\nScena Tertia.\nEnter Cymbeline, Lords, and Pisanio.\nCym. Againe: and bring me word how 'tis with her,\nA Feauour with the absence of her Sonne;\nA madnesse, of which her life's in danger: Heauens,\nHow deeply you at once do touch me. Imogen,\nThe great part of my comfort, gone: My Queene\nVpon a desperate bed, and in a time\nWhen fearefull Warres point at me: Her Sonne gone,\nSo needfull for this present? It strikes me, past\nThe hope of comfort. But for thee, Fellow,\nWho needs must know of her departure, and\nDost seeme so ignorant, wee'l enforce it from thee\nBy a sharpe Torture\nPis. Sir, my life is yours,\nI humbly set it at your will: But for my Mistris,\nI nothing know where she remaines: why gone,\nNor when she purposes returne. Beseech your Highnes,\nHold me your loyall Seruant\nLord. Good my Liege,\nThe day that she was missing, he was heere;\nI dare be bound hee's true, and shall performe\nAll parts of his subiection loyally. For Cloten,\nThere wants no diligence in seeking him,\nAnd will no doubt be found\nCym. The time is troublesome:\nWee'l slip you for a season, but our iealousie\nDo's yet depend\nLord. So please your Maiesty,\nThe Romaine Legions, all from Gallia drawne,\nAre landed on your Coast, with a supply\nOf Romaine Gentlemen, by the Senate sent\nCym. Now for the Counsaile of my Son and Queen,\nI am amaz'd with matter\nLord. Good my Liege,\nYour preparation can affront no lesse\nThen what you heare of. Come more, for more you're ready:\nThe want is, but to put those Powres in motion,\nThat long to moue\nCym. I thanke you: let's withdraw\nAnd meete the Time, as it seekes vs. We feare not\nWhat can from Italy annoy vs, but\nWe greeue at chances heere. Away.\nExeunt.\nPisa. I heard no Letter from my Master, since\nI wrote him Imogen was slaine. 'Tis strange:\nNor heare I from my Mistris, who did promise\nTo yeeld me often tydings. Neither know I\nWhat is betide to Cloten, but remaine\nPerplext in all. The Heauens still must worke:\nWherein I am false, I am honest: not true, to be true.\nThese present warres shall finde I loue my Country,\nEuen to the note o'th' King, or Ile fall in them:\nAll other doubts, by time let them be cleer'd,\nFortune brings in some Boats, that are not steer'd.\nEnter.\nScena Quarta.\nEnter Belarius, Guiderius, & Aruiragus.\nGui. The noyse is round about vs\nBel. Let vs from it\nArui. What pleasure Sir, we finde in life, to locke it\nFrom Action, and Aduenture\nGui. Nay, what hope\nHaue we in hiding vs? This way the Romaines\nMust, or for Britaines slay vs, or receiue vs\nFor barbarous and vnnaturall Reuolts\nDuring their vse, and slay vs after\nBel. Sonnes,\nWee'l higher to the Mountaines, there secure vs.\nTo the Kings party there's no going: newnesse\nOf Clotens death (we being not knowne, nor muster'd\nAmong the Bands) may driue vs to a render\nWhere we haue liu'd; and so extort from's that\nWhich we haue done, whose answer would be death\nDrawne on with Torture\nGui. This is (Sir) a doubt\nIn such a time, nothing becomming you,\nNor satisfying vs\nArui. It is not likely,\nThat when they heare their Roman horses neigh,\nBehold their quarter'd Fires; haue both their eyes\nAnd eares so cloyd importantly as now,\nThat they will waste their time vpon our note,\nTo know from whence we are\nBel. Oh, I am knowne\nOf many in the Army: Many yeeres\n(Though Cloten then but young) you see, not wore him\nFrom my remembrance. And besides, the King\nHath not deseru'd my Seruice, nor your Loues,\nWho finde in my Exile, the want of Breeding;\nThe certainty of this heard life, aye hopelesse\nTo haue the courtesie your Cradle promis'd,\nBut to be still hot Summers Tanlings, and\nThe shrinking Slaues of Winter\nGui. Then be so,\nBetter to cease to be. Pray Sir, to'th' Army:\nI, and my Brother are not knowne; your selfe\nSo out of thought, and thereto so ore-growne,\nCannot be question'd\nArui. By this Sunne that shines\nIle thither: What thing is't, that I neuer\nDid see man dye, scarse euer look'd on blood,\nBut that of Coward Hares, hot Goats, and Venison?\nNeuer bestrid a Horse saue one, that had\nA Rider like my selfe, who ne're wore Rowell,\nNor Iron on his heele? I am asham'd\nTo looke vpon the holy Sunne, to haue\nThe benefit of his blest Beames, remaining\nSo long a poore vnknowne\nGui. By heauens Ile go,\nIf you will blesse me Sir, and giue me leaue,\nIle take the better care: but if you will not,\nThe hazard therefore due fall on me, by\nThe hands of Romaines\nArui. So say I, Amen\nBel. No reason I (since of your liues you set\nSo slight a valewation) should reserue\nMy crack'd one to more care. Haue with you Boyes:\nIf in your Country warres you chance to dye,\nThat is my Bed too (Lads) and there Ile lye.\nLead, lead; the time seems long, their blood thinks scorn\nTill it flye out, and shew them Princes borne.\nExeunt.\nActus Quintus. Scena Prima.\nEnter Posthumus alone.\nPost. Yea bloody cloth, Ile keep thee: for I am wisht\nThou should'st be colour'd thus. You married ones,\nIf each of you should take this course, how many\nMust murther Wiues much better then themselues\nFor wrying but a little? Oh Pisanio,\nEuery good Seruant do's not all Commands:\nNo Bond, but to do iust ones. Gods, if you\nShould haue 'tane vengeance on my faults, I neuer\nHad liu'd to put on this: so had you saued\nThe noble Imogen, to repent, and strooke\nMe (wretch) more worth your Vengeance. But alacke,\nYou snatch some hence for little faults; that's loue\nTo haue them fall no more: you some permit\nTo second illes with illes, each elder worse,\nAnd make them dread it, to the dooers thrift.\nBut Imogen is your owne, do your best willes,\nAnd make me blest to obey. I am brought hither\nAmong th' Italian Gentry, and to fight\nAgainst my Ladies Kingdome: 'Tis enough\nThat (Britaine) I haue kill'd thy Mistris: Peace,\nIle giue no wound to thee: therefore good Heauens,\nHeare patiently my purpose. Ile disrobe me\nOf these Italian weedes, and suite my selfe\nAs do's a Britaine Pezant: so Ile fight\nAgainst the part I come with: so Ile dye\nFor thee (O Imogen) euen for whom my life\nIs euery breath, a death: and thus, vnknowne,\nPittied, nor hated, to the face of perill\nMy selfe Ile dedicate. Let me make men know\nMore valour in me, then my habits show.\nGods, put the strength o'th'Leonati in me:\nTo shame the guize o'th' world, I will begin,\nThe fashion lesse without, and more within.\nEnter.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter Lucius, Iachimo, and the Romane Army at one doore: and\nthe Britaine\nArmy at another: Leonatus Posthumus following like a poore\nSouldier. They\nmarch ouer, and goe out. Then enter againe in Skirmish Iachimo\nand\nPosthumus: he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then\nleaues him.\nIac. The heauinesse and guilt within my bosome,\nTakes off my manhood: I haue belyed a Lady,\nThe Princesse of this Country; and the ayre on't\nReuengingly enfeebles me, or could this Carle,\nA very drudge of Natures, haue subdu'de me\nIn my profession? Knighthoods, and Honors borne\nAs I weare mine) are titles but of scorne.\nIf that thy Gentry (Britaine) go before\nThis Lowt, as he exceeds our Lords, the oddes\nIs, that we scarse are men, and you are Goddes.\nEnter.\nThe Battaile continues, the Britaines fly, Cymbeline is taken: Then\nenter\nto his rescue, Bellarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus.\nBel. Stand, stand, we haue th' aduantage of the ground,\nThe Lane is guarded: Nothing rowts vs, but\nThe villany of our feares\nGui. Arui. Stand, stand, and fight.\nEnter Posthumus, and seconds the Britaines. They Rescue\nCymbeline, and\nExeunt.\nThen enter Lucius, Iachimo, and Imogen.\nLuc. Away boy from the Troopes, and saue thy selfe:\nFor friends kil friends, and the disorder's such\nAs warre were hood-wink'd\nIac. 'Tis their fresh supplies\nLuc. It is a day turn'd strangely: or betimes\nLet's re-inforce, or fly.\nExeunt.\nScena Tertia.\nEnter Posthumus, and a Britaine Lord.\nLor. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand?\nPost. I did,\nThough you it seemes come from the Fliers?\nLo. I did\nPost. No blame be to you Sir, for all was lost,\nBut that the Heauens fought: the King himselfe\nOf his wings destitute, the Army broken,\nAnd but the backes of Britaines seene; all flying\nThrough a strait Lane, the Enemy full-heart'd,\nLolling the Tongue with slaught'ring: hauing worke\nMore plentifull, then Tooles to doo't: strooke downe\nSome mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling\nMeerely through feare, that the strait passe was damm'd\nWith deadmen, hurt behinde, and Cowards liuing\nTo dye with length'ned shame\nLo. Where was this Lane?\nPost. Close by the battell, ditch'd, & wall'd with turph,\nWhich gaue aduantage to an ancient Soldiour\n(An honest one I warrant) who deseru'd\nSo long a breeding, as his white beard came to,\nIn doing this for's Country. Athwart the Lane,\nHe, with two striplings (Lads more like to run\nThe Country base, then to commit such slaughter,\nWith faces fit for Maskes, or rather fayrer\nThen those for preseruation cas'd, or shame)\nMade good the passage, cryed to those that fled.\nOur Britaines hearts dye flying, not our men,\nTo darknesse fleete soules that flye backwards; stand,\nOr we are Romanes, and will giue you that\nLike beasts, which you shun beastly, and may saue\nBut to looke backe in frowne: Stand, stand. These three,\nThree thousand confident, in acte as many:\nFor three performers are the File, when all\nThe rest do nothing. With this word stand, stand,\nAccomodated by the Place; more Charming\nWith their owne Noblenesse, which could haue turn'd\nA Distaffe, to a Lance, guilded pale lookes;\nPart shame, part spirit renew'd, that some turn'd coward\nBut by example (Oh a sinne in Warre,\nDamn'd in the first beginners) gan to looke\nThe way that they did, and to grin like Lyons\nVpon the Pikes o'th' Hunters. Then beganne\nA stop i'th' Chaser; a Retyre: Anon\nA Rowt, confusion thicke: forthwith they flye\nChickens, the way which they stopt Eagles: Slaues\nThe strides the Victors made: and now our Cowards\nLike Fragments in hard Voyages became\nThe life o'th' need: hauing found the backe doore open\nOf the vnguarded hearts: heauens, how they wound,\nSome slaine before some dying; some their Friends\nOre-borne i'th' former waue, ten chac'd by one,\nAre now each one the slaughter-man of twenty:\nThose that would dye, or ere resist, are growne\nThe mortall bugs o'th' Field\nLord. This was strange chance:\nA narrow Lane, an old man, and two Boyes\nPost. Nay, do not wonder at it: you are made\nRather to wonder at the things you heare,\nThen to worke any. Will you Rime vpon't,\nAnd vent it for a Mock'rie? Heere is one:\n``Two Boyes, an Oldman (twice a Boy) a Lane,\n``Preseru'd the Britaines, was the Romanes bane\nLord. Nay, be not angry Sir\nPost. Lacke, to what end?\nWho dares not stand his Foe, Ile be his Friend:\nFor if hee'l do, as he is made to doo,\nI know hee'l quickly flye my friendship too.\nYou haue put me into Rime\nLord. Farewell, you're angry.\nEnter.\nPost. Still going? This is a Lord: Oh Noble misery\nTo be i'th' Field, and aske what newes of me:\nTo day, how many would haue giuen their Honours\nTo haue sau'd their Carkasses? Tooke heele to doo't,\nAnd yet dyed too. I, in mine owne woe charm'd\nCould not finde death, where I did heare him groane,\nNor feele him where he strooke. Being an vgly Monster,\n'Tis strange he hides him in fresh Cups, soft Beds,\nSweet words; or hath moe ministers then we\nThat draw his kniues i'th' War. Well I will finde him:\nFor being now a Fauourer to the Britaine,\nNo more a Britaine, I haue resum'd againe\nThe part I came in. Fight I will no more,\nBut yeeld me to the veriest Hinde, that shall\nOnce touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is\nHeere made by'th' Romane; great the Answer be\nBritaines must take. For me, my Ransome's death,\nOn eyther side I come to spend my breath;\nWhich neyther heere Ile keepe, nor beare agen,\nBut end it by some meanes for Imogen.\nEnter two Captaines, and Soldiers.\n1 Great Iupiter be prais'd, Lucius is taken,\n'Tis thought the old man, and his sonnes, were Angels\n2 There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,\nThat gaue th' Affront with them\n1 So 'tis reported:\nBut none of 'em can be found. Stand, who's there?\nPost. A Roman,\nWho had not now beene drooping heere, if Seconds\nHad answer'd him\n2 Lay hands on him: a Dogge,\nA legge of Rome shall not returne to tell\nWhat Crows haue peckt them here: he brags his seruice\nAs if he were of note: bring him to'th' King.\nEnter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, Pisanio, and\nRomane\nCaptiues. The Captaines present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who\ndeliuers him\nouer to a Gaoler.\nScena Quarta.\nEnter Posthumus, and Gaoler.\nGao. You shall not now be stolne,\nYou haue lockes vpon you:\nSo graze, as you finde Pasture\n2.Gao. I, or a stomacke\nPost. Most welcome bondage; for thou art a way\n(I thinke) to liberty: yet am I better\nThen one that's sicke o'th' Gowt, since he had rather\nGroane so in perpetuity, then be cur'd\nBy'th' sure Physitian, Death; who is the key\nT' vnbarre these Lockes. My Conscience, thou art fetter'd\nMore then my shanks, & wrists: you good Gods giue me\nThe penitent Instrument to picke that Bolt,\nThen free for euer. Is't enough I am sorry?\nSo Children temporall Fathers do appease;\nGods are more full of mercy. Must I repent,\nI cannot do it better then in Gyues,\nDesir'd, more then constrain'd, to satisfie\nIf of my Freedome 'tis the maine part, take\nNo stricter render of me, then my All.\nI know you are more clement then vilde men,\nWho of their broken Debtors take a third,\nA sixt, a tenth, letting them thriue againe\nOn their abatement; that's not my desire.\nFor Imogens deere life, take mine, and though\n'Tis not so deere, yet 'tis a life; you coyn'd it,\n'Tweene man, and man, they waigh not euery stampe:\nThough light, take Peeces for the figures sake,\n(You rather) mine being yours: and so great Powres,\nIf you will take this Audit, take this life,\nAnd cancell these cold Bonds. Oh Imogen,\nIle speake to thee in silence.\nSolemne Musicke. Enter (as in an Apparation) Sicillius Leonatus,\nFather\nto Posthumus, an old man, attyred like a warriour, leading in his\nhand an\nancient Matron (his wife, & Mother to Posthumus) with Musicke\nbefore them.\nThen after other Musicke, followes the two young Leonati\n(Brothers to\nPosthumus) with wounds as they died in the warrs. They circle\nPosthumus\nround as he lies sleeping.\nSicil. No more thou Thunder-Master\nshew thy spight, on Mortall Flies:\nWith Mars fall out with Iuno chide, that thy Adulteries\nRates, and Reuenges.\nHath my poore Boy done ought but well,\nwhose face I neuer saw:\nI dy'de whil'st in the Wombe he staide,\nattending Natures Law.\nWhose Father then (as men report,\nthou Orphanes Father art)\nThou should'st haue bin, and sheelded him,\nfrom this earth-vexing smart\nMoth. Lucina lent not me her ayde,\nbut tooke me in my Throwes,\nThat from me was Posthumus ript,\ncame crying 'mong'st his Foes.\nA thing of pitty\nSicil. Great Nature like his Ancestrie,\nmoulded the stuffe so faire:\nThat he deseru'd the praise o'th' World,\nas great Sicilius heyre\n1.Bro. When once he was mature for man,\nin Britaine where was hee\nThat could stand vp his paralell?\nOr fruitfull obiect bee?\nIn eye of Imogen, that best could deeme\nhis dignitie\nMo. With Marriage wherefore was he mockt\nto be exil'd, and throwne\nFrom Leonati Seate, and cast from her,\nhis deerest one:\nSweete Imogen?\nSic. Why did you suffer Iachimo, slight thing of Italy,\nTo taint his Nobler hart & braine, with needlesse ielousy,\nAnd to become the geeke and scorne o'th' others vilany?\n2 Bro. For this, from stiller Seats we came,\nour Parents, and vs twaine,\nThat striking in our Countries cause,\nfell brauely, and were slaine,\nOur Fealty, & Tenantius right, with Honor to maintaine\n1 Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath\nto Cymbeline perform'd:\nThen Iupiter, y King of Gods, why hast y thus adiourn'd\nThe Graces for his Merits due, being all to dolors turn'd?\nSicil. Thy Christall window ope; looke,\nlooke out, no longer exercise\nVpon a valiant Race, thy harsh, and potent iniuries:\nMoth. Since (Iupiter) our Son is good,\ntake off his miseries\nSicil. Peepe through thy Marble Mansion, helpe,\nor we poore Ghosts will cry\nTo'th' shining Synod of the rest, against thy Deity\nBrothers. Helpe (Iupiter) or we appeale,\nand from thy iustice flye.\nIupiter descends in Thunder and Lightning, sitting vppon an Eagle:\nhee\nthrowes a Thunder-bolt. The Ghostes fall on their knees.\nIupiter. No more you petty Spirits of Region low\nOffend our hearing: hush. How dare you Ghostes\nAccuse the Thunderer, whose Bolt (you know)\nSky-planted, batters all rebelling Coasts.\nPoore shadowes of Elizium, hence, and rest\nVpon your neuer-withering bankes of Flowres.\nBe not with mortall accidents opprest,\nNo care of yours it is, you know 'tis ours.\nWhom best I loue, I crosse; to make my guift\nThe more delay'd, delighted. Be content,\nYour low-laide Sonne, our Godhead will vplift:\nHis Comforts thriue, his Trials well are spent:\nOur Iouiall Starre reign'd at his Birth, and in\nOur Temple was he married: Rise, and fade,\nHe shall be Lord of Lady Imogen,\nAnd happier much by his Affliction made\nThis Tablet lay vpon his Brest, wherein\nOur pleasure, his full Fortune, doth confine,\nAnd so away: no farther with your dinne\nExpresse Impatience, least you stirre vp mine:\nMount Eagle, to my Palace Christalline.\nAscends\nSicil. He came in Thunder, his Celestiall breath\nWas sulphurous to smell: the holy Eagle\nStoop'd, as to foote vs: his Ascension is\nMore sweet then our blest Fields: his Royall Bird\nPrunes the immortall wing, and cloyes his Beake,\nAs when his God is pleas'd\nAll. Thankes Iupiter\nSic. The Marble Pauement clozes, he is enter'd\nHis radiant Roofe: Away, and to be blest\nLet vs with care performe his great behest.\nVanish\nPost. Sleepe, thou hast bin a Grandsire, and begot\nA Father to me: and thou hast created\nA Mother, and two Brothers. But (oh scorne)\nGone, they went hence so soone as they were borne:\nAnd so I am awake. Poore Wretches, that depend\nOn Greatnesse, Fauour; Dreame as I haue done,\nWake, and finde nothing. But (alas) I swerue:\nMany Dreame not to finde, neither deserue,\nAnd yet are steep'd in Fauours; so am I\nThat haue this Golden chance, and know not why:\nWhat Fayeries haunt this ground? A Book? Oh rare one,\nBe not, as is our fangled world, a Garment\nNobler then that it couers. Let thy effects\nSo follow, to be most vnlike our Courtiers,\nAs good, as promise.\nReades.\nWhen as a Lyons whelpe, shall to himselfe vnknown, without\nseeking finde, and bee embrac'd by a peece of tender\nAyre: And when from a stately Cedar shall be lopt branches,\nwhich being dead many yeares, shall after reuiue, bee ioynted to\nthe old Stocke, and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end his\nmiseries, Britaine be fortunate, and flourish in Peace and Plentie.\n'Tis still a Dreame: or else such stuffe as Madmen\nTongue, and braine not: either both, or nothing\nOr senselesse speaking, or a speaking such\nAs sense cannot vntye. Be what it is,\nThe Action of my life is like it, which Ile keepe\nIf but for simpathy.\nEnter Gaoler.\nGao. Come Sir, are you ready for death?\nPost. Ouer-roasted rather: ready long ago\nGao. Hanging is the word, Sir, if you bee readie for\nthat, you are well Cook'd\nPost. So if I proue a good repast to the Spectators, the\ndish payes the shot\nGao. A heauy reckoning for you Sir: But the comfort\nis you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more\nTauerne Bils, which are often the sadnesse of parting, as\nthe procuring of mirth: you come in faint for want of\nmeate, depart reeling with too much drinke: sorrie that\nyou haue payed too much, and sorry that you are payed\ntoo much: Purse and Braine, both empty: the Brain the\nheauier, for being too light; the Purse too light, being\ndrawne of heauinesse. Oh, of this contradiction you shall\nnow be quit: Oh the charity of a penny Cord, it summes\nvp thousands in a trice: you haue no true Debitor, and\nCreditor but it: of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge:\nyour necke (Sir) is Pen, Booke, and Counters; so\nthe Acquittance followes\nPost. I am merrier to dye, then thou art to liue\nGao. Indeed Sir, he that sleepes, feeles not the Tooth-Ache:\nbut a man that were to sleepe your sleepe, and a\nHangman to helpe him to bed, I think he would change\nplaces with his Officer: for, look you Sir, you know not\nwhich way you shall go\nPost. Yes indeed do I, fellow\nGao. Your death has eyes in's head then: I haue not\nseene him so pictur'd: you must either bee directed by\nsome that take vpon them to know, or to take vpon your\nselfe that which I am sure you do not know: or iump the\nafter-enquiry on your owne perill: and how you shall\nspeed in your iournies end, I thinke you'l neuer returne\nto tell one\nPost. I tell thee, Fellow, there are none want eyes, to\ndirect them the way I am going, but such as winke, and\nwill not vse them\nGao. What an infinite mocke is this, that a man shold\nhaue the best vse of eyes, to see the way of blindnesse: I\nam sure hanging's the way of winking.\nEnter a Messenger.\nMes. Knocke off his Manacles, bring your Prisoner to\nthe King\nPost. Thou bring'st good newes, I am call'd to bee\nmade free\nGao. Ile be hang'd then\nPost. Thou shalt be then freer then a Gaoler; no bolts\nfor the dead\nGao. Vnlesse a man would marry a Gallowes, & beget\nyong Gibbets, I neuer saw one so prone: yet on my\nConscience, there are verier Knaues desire to liue, for all\nhe be a Roman; and there be some of them too that dye\nagainst their willes; so should I, if I were one. I would\nwe were all of one minde, and one minde good: O there\nwere desolation of Gaolers and Galowses: I speake against\nmy present profit, but my wish hath a preferment\nin't.\nExeunt.\nScena Quinta.\nEnter Cymbeline, Bellarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, Pisanio, and\nLords.\nCym. Stand by my side you, whom the Gods haue made\nPreseruers of my Throne: woe is my heart,\nThat the poore Souldier that so richly fought,\nWhose ragges, sham'd gilded Armes, whose naked brest\nStept before Targes of proofe, cannot be found:\nHe shall be happy that can finde him, if\nOur Grace can make him so\nBel. I neuer saw\nSuch Noble fury in so poore a Thing;\nSuch precious deeds, in one that promist nought\nBut beggery, and poore lookes\nCym. No tydings of him?\nPisa. He hath bin search'd among the dead, & liuing;\nBut no trace of him\nCym. To my greefe, I am\nThe heyre of his Reward, which I will adde\nTo you (the Liuer, Heart, and Braine of Britaine)\nBy whom (I grant) she liues. 'Tis now the time\nTo aske of whence you are. Report it\nBel. Sir,\nIn Cambria are we borne, and Gentlemen:\nFurther to boast, were neyther true, nor modest,\nVnlesse I adde, we are honest\nCym. Bow your knees:\nArise my Knights o'th' Battell, I create you\nCompanions to our person, and will fit you\nWith Dignities becomming your estates.\nEnter Cornelius and Ladies.\nThere's businesse in these faces: why so sadly\nGreet you our Victory? you looke like Romaines,\nAnd not o'th' Court of Britaine\nCorn. Hayle great King,\nTo sowre your happinesse, I must report\nThe Queene is dead\nCym. Who worse then a Physitian\nWould this report become? But I consider,\nBy Med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death\nWill seize the Doctor too. How ended she?\nCor. With horror, madly dying, like her life,\nWhich (being cruell to the world) concluded\nMost cruell to her selfe. What she confest,\nI will report, so please you. These her Women\nCan trip me, if I erre, who with wet cheekes\nWere present when she finish'd\nCym. Prythee say\nCor. First, she confest she neuer lou'd you: onely\nAffected Greatnesse got by you: not you:\nMarried your Royalty, was wife to your place:\nAbhorr'd your person\nCym. She alone knew this:\nAnd but she spoke it dying, I would not\nBeleeue her lips in opening it. Proceed\nCorn. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to loue\nWith such integrity, she did confesse\nWas as a Scorpion to her sight, whose life\n(But that her flight preuented it) she had\nTane off by poyson\nCym. O most delicate Fiend!\nWho is't can reade a Woman? Is there more?\nCorn. More Sir, and worse. She did confesse she had\nFor you a mortall Minerall, which being tooke,\nShould by the minute feede on life, and ling'ring,\nBy inches waste you. In which time, she purpos'd\nBy watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to\nOrecome you with her shew; and in time\n(When she had fitted you with her craft, to worke\nHer Sonne into th' adoption of the Crowne:\nBut fayling of her end by his strange absence,\nGrew shamelesse desperate, open'd (in despight\nOf Heauen, and Men) her purposes: repented\nThe euils she hatch'd, were not effected: so\nDispayring, dyed\nCym. Heard you all this, her Women?\nLa. We did, so please your Highnesse\nCym. Mine eyes\nWere not in fault, for she was beautifull:\nMine eares that heare her flattery, nor my heart,\nThat thought her like her seeming. It had beene vicious\nTo haue mistrusted her: yet (Oh my Daughter)\nThat it was folly in me, thou mayst say,\nAnd proue it in thy feeling. Heauen mend all.\nEnter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prisoners, Leonatus\nbehind, and\nImogen.\nThou comm'st not Caius now for Tribute, that\nThe Britaines haue rac'd out, though with the losse\nOf many a bold one: whose Kinsmen haue made suite\nThat their good soules may be appeas'd, with slaughter\nOf you their Captiues, which our selfe haue granted,\nSo thinke of your estate\nLuc. Consider Sir, the chance of Warre, the day\nWas yours by accident: had it gone with vs,\nWe should not when the blood was cool, haue threatend\nOur Prisoners with the Sword. But since the Gods\nWill haue it thus, that nothing but our liues\nMay be call'd ransome, let it come: Sufficeth,\nA Roman, with a Romans heart can suffer:\nAugustus liues to thinke on't: and so much\nFor my peculiar care. This one thing onely\nI will entreate, my Boy (a Britaine borne)\nLet him be ransom'd: Neuer Master had\nA Page so kinde, so duteous, diligent,\nSo tender ouer his occasions, true,\nSo feate, so Nurse-like: let his vertue ioyne\nWith my request, which Ile make bold your Highnesse\nCannot deny: he hath done no Britaine harme,\nThough he haue seru'd a Roman. Saue him (Sir)\nAnd spare no blood beside\nCym. I haue surely seene him:\nHis fauour is familiar to me: Boy,\nThou hast look'd thy selfe into my grace,\nAnd art mine owne. I know not why, wherefore,\nTo say, liue boy: ne're thanke thy Master, liue;\nAnd aske of Cymbeline what Boone thou wilt,\nFitting my bounty, and thy state, Ile giue it:\nYea, though thou do demand a Prisoner\nThe Noblest tane\nImo. I humbly thanke your Highnesse\nLuc. I do not bid thee begge my life, good Lad,\nAnd yet I know thou wilt\nImo. No, no, alacke,\nThere's other worke in hand: I see a thing\nBitter to me, as death: your life, good Master,\nMust shuffle for it selfe\nLuc. The Boy disdaines me,\nHe leaues me, scornes me: briefely dye their ioyes,\nThat place them on the truth of Gyrles, and Boyes.\nWhy stands he so perplext?\nCym. What would'st thou Boy?\nI loue thee more, and more: thinke more and more\nWhat's best to aske. Know'st him thou look'st on? speak\nWilt haue him liue? Is he thy Kin? thy Friend?\nImo. He is a Romane, no more kin to me,\nThen I to your Highnesse, who being born your vassaile\nAm something neerer\nCym. Wherefore ey'st him so?\nImo. Ile tell you (Sir) in priuate, if you please\nTo giue me hearing\nCym. I, with all my heart,\nAnd lend my best attention. What's thy name?\nImo. Fidele Sir\nCym. Thou'rt my good youth: my Page\nIle be thy Master: walke with me: speake freely\nBel. Is not this Boy reuiu'd from death?\nArui. One Sand another\nNot more resembles that sweet Rosie Lad:\nWho dyed, and was Fidele: what thinke you?\nGui. The same dead thing aliue\nBel. Peace, peace, see further: he eyes vs not, forbeare\nCreatures may be alike: were't he, I am sure\nHe would haue spoke to vs\nGui. But we see him dead\nBel. Be silent: let's see further\nPisa. It is my Mistris:\nSince she is liuing, let the time run on,\nTo good, or bad\nCym. Come, stand thou by our side,\nMake thy demand alowd. Sir, step you forth,\nGiue answer to this Boy, and do it freely,\nOr by our Greatnesse, and the grace of it\n(Which is our Honor) bitter torture shall\nWinnow the truth from falshood. One speake to him\nImo. My boone is, that this Gentleman may render\nOf whom he had this Ring\nPost. What's that to him?\nCym. That Diamond vpon your Finger, say\nHow came it yours?\nIach. Thou'lt torture me to leaue vnspoken, that\nWhich to be spoke, wou'd torture thee\nCym. How? me?\nIach. I am glad to be constrain'd to vtter that\nWhich torments me to conceale. By Villany\nI got this Ring: 'twas Leonatus Iewell,\nWhom thou did'st banish: and which more may greeue thee,\nAs it doth me: a Nobler Sir, ne're liu'd\n'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou heare more my Lord?\nCym. All that belongs to this\nIach. That Paragon, thy daughter,\nFor whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits\nQuaile to remember. Giue me leaue, I faint\nCym. My Daughter? what of hir? Renew thy strength\nI had rather thou should'st liue, while Nature will,\nThen dye ere I heare more: striue man, and speake\nIach. Vpon a time, vnhappy was the clocke\nThat strooke the houre: it was in Rome, accurst\nThe Mansion where: 'twas at a Feast, oh would\nOur Viands had bin poyson'd (or at least\nThose which I heau'd to head:) the good Posthumus,\n(What should I say? he was too good to be\nWhere ill men were, and was the best of all\nAmong'st the rar'st of good ones) sitting sadly,\nHearing vs praise our Loues of Italy\nFor Beauty, that made barren the swell'd boast\nOf him that best could speake: for Feature, laming\nThe Shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerua,\nPostures, beyond breefe Nature. For Condition,\nA shop of all the qualities, that man\nLoues woman for, besides that hooke of Wiuing,\nFairenesse, which strikes the eye\nCym. I stand on fire. Come to the matter\nIach. All too soone I shall,\nVnlesse thou would'st greeue quickly. This Posthumus,\nMost like a Noble Lord, in loue, and one\nThat had a Royall Louer, tooke his hint,\nAnd (not dispraising whom we prais'd, therein\nHe was as calme as vertue) he began\nHis Mistris picture, which, by his tongue, being made,\nAnd then a minde put in't, either our bragges\nWere crak'd of Kitchin-Trulles, or his description\nProu'd vs vnspeaking sottes\nCym. Nay, nay, to'th' purpose\nIach. Your daughters Chastity, (there it beginnes)\nHe spake of her, as Dian had hot dreames,\nAnd she alone, were cold: Whereat, I wretch\nMade scruple of his praise, and wager'd with him\nPeeces of Gold, 'gainst this, which then he wore\nVpon his honour'd finger) to attaine\nIn suite the place of's bed, and winne this Ring\nBy hers, and mine Adultery: he (true Knight)\nNo lesser of her Honour confident\nThen I did truly finde her, stakes this Ring,\nAnd would so, had it beene a Carbuncle\nOf Phoebus Wheele; and might so safely, had it\nBin all the worth of's Carre. Away to Britaine\nPoste I in this designe: Well may you (Sir)\nRemember me at Court, where I was taught\nOf your chaste Daughter, the wide difference\n'Twixt Amorous, and Villanous. Being thus quench'd\nOf hope, not longing; mine Italian braine,\nGan in your duller Britaine operate\nMost vildely: for my vantage excellent.\nAnd to be breefe, my practise so preuayl'd\nThat I return'd with simular proofe enough,\nTo make the Noble Leonatus mad,\nBy wounding his beleefe in her Renowne,\nWith Tokens thus, and thus: auerring notes\nOf Chamber-hanging, Pictures, this her Bracelet\n(Oh cunning how I got) nay some markes\nOf secret on her person, that he could not\nBut thinke her bond of Chastity quite crack'd,\nI hauing 'tane the forfeyt. Whereupon,\nMe thinkes I see him now\nPost. I so thou do'st,\nItalian Fiend. Aye me, most credulous Foole,\nEgregious murtherer, Theefe, any thing\nThat's due to all the Villaines past, in being\nTo come. Oh giue me Cord, or knife, or poyson,\nSome vpright Iusticer. Thou King, send out\nFor Torturors ingenious: it is I\nThat all th' abhorred things o'th' earth amend\nBy being worse then they. I am Posthumus,\nThat kill'd thy Daughter: Villain-like, I lye,\nThat caus'd a lesser villaine then my selfe,\nA sacrilegious Theefe to doo't. The Temple\nOf Vertue was she; yea, and she her selfe.\nSpit, and throw stones, cast myre vpon me, set\nThe dogges o'th' street to bay me: euery villaine\nBe call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and\nBe villany lesse then 'twas. Oh Imogen!\nMy Queene, my life, my wife: oh Imogen,\nImogen, Imogen\nImo. Peace my Lord, heare, heare\nPost. Shall's haue a play of this?\nThou scornfull Page, there lye thy part\nPis. Oh Gentlemen, helpe,\nMine and your Mistris: Oh my Lord Posthumus,\nYou ne're kill'd Imogen till now: helpe, helpe,\nMine honour'd Lady\nCym. Does the world go round?\nPosth. How comes these staggers on mee?\nPisa. Wake my Mistris\nCym. If this be so, the Gods do meane to strike me\nTo death, with mortall ioy\nPisa. How fares my Mistris?\nImo. Oh get thee from my sight,\nThou gau'st me poyson: dangerous Fellow hence,\nBreath not where Princes are\nCym. The tune of Imogen\nPisa. Lady, the Gods throw stones of sulpher on me, if\nThat box I gaue you, was not thought by mee\nA precious thing, I had it from the Queene\nCym. New matter still\nImo. It poyson'd me\nCorn. Oh Gods!\nI left out one thing which the Queene confest,\nWhich must approue thee honest. If Pasanio\nHaue (said she) giuen his Mistris that Confection\nWhich I gaue him for Cordiall, she is seru'd,\nAs I would serue a Rat\nCym. What's this, Cornelius?\nCorn. The Queene (Sir) very oft importun'd me\nTo temper poysons for her, still pretending\nThe satisfaction of her knowledge, onely\nIn killing Creatures vilde, as Cats and Dogges\nOf no esteeme. I dreading, that her purpose\nWas of more danger, did compound for her\nA certaine stuffe, which being tane, would cease\nThe present powre of life, but in short time,\nAll Offices of Nature, should againe\nDo their due Functions. Haue you tane of it?\nImo. Most like I did, for I was dead\nBel. My Boyes, there was our error\nGui. This is sure Fidele\nImo. Why did you throw your wedded Lady fro[m] you?\nThinke that you are vpon a Rocke, and now\nThrow me againe\nPost. Hang there like fruite, my soule,\nTill the Tree dye\nCym. How now, my Flesh? my Childe?\nWhat, mak'st thou me a dullard in this Act?\nWilt thou not speake to me?\nImo. Your blessing, Sir\nBel. Though you did loue this youth, I blame ye not,\nYou had a motiue for't\nCym. My teares that fall\nProue holy-water on thee; Imogen,\nThy Mothers dead\nImo. I am sorry for't, my Lord\nCym. Oh, she was naught; and long of her it was\nThat we meet heere so strangely: but her Sonne\nIs gone, we know not how, nor where\nPisa. My Lord,\nNow feare is from me, Ile speake troth. Lord Cloten\nVpon my Ladies missing, came to me\nWith his Sword drawne, foam'd at the mouth, and swore\nIf I discouer'd not which way she was gone,\nIt was my instant death. By accident,\nI had a feigned Letter of my Masters\nThen in my pocket, which directed him\nTo seeke her on the Mountaines neere to Milford,\nWhere in a frenzie, in my Masters Garments\n(Which he inforc'd from me) away he postes\nWith vnchaste purpose, and with oath to violate\nMy Ladies honor, what became of him,\nI further know not\nGui. Let me end the Story: I slew him there\nCym. Marry, the Gods forefend.\nI would not thy good deeds, should from my lips\nPlucke a hard sentence: Prythee valiant youth\nDeny't againe\nGui. I haue spoke it, and I did it\nCym. He was a Prince\nGui. A most inciuill one. The wrongs he did mee\nWere nothing Prince-like; for he did prouoke me\nWith Language that would make me spurne the Sea,\nIf it could so roare to me. I cut off's head,\nAnd am right glad he is not standing heere\nTo tell this tale of mine\nCym. I am sorrow for thee:\nBy thine owne tongue thou art condemn'd, and must\nEndure our Law: Thou'rt dead\nImo. That headlesse man I thought had bin my Lord\nCym. Binde the Offender,\nAnd take him from our presence\nBel. Stay, Sir King.\nThis man is better then the man he slew,\nAs well descended as thy selfe, and hath\nMore of thee merited, then a Band of Clotens\nHad euer scarre for. Let his Armes alone,\nThey were not borne for bondage\nCym. Why old Soldier:\nWilt thou vndoo the worth thou art vnpayd for\nBy tasting of our wrath? How of descent\nAs good as we?\nArui. In that he spake too farre\nCym. And thou shalt dye for't\nBel. We will dye all three,\nBut I will proue that two one's are as good\nAs I haue giuen out him. My Sonnes, I must\nFor mine owne part, vnfold a dangerous speech,\nThough haply well for you\nArui. Your danger's ours\nGuid. And our good his\nBel. Haue at it then, by leaue\nThou hadd'st (great King) a Subiect, who\nWas call'd Belarius\nCym. What of him? He is a banish'd Traitor\nBel. He it is, that hath\nAssum'd this age: indeed a banish'd man,\nI know not how, a Traitor\nCym. Take him hence,\nThe whole world shall not saue him\nBel. Not too hot;\nFirst pay me for the Nursing of thy Sonnes,\nAnd let it be confiscate all, so soone\nAs I haue receyu'd it\nCym. Nursing of my Sonnes?\nBel. I am too blunt, and sawcy: heere's my knee:\nEre I arise, I will preferre my Sonnes,\nThen spare not the old Father. Mighty Sir,\nThese two young Gentlemen that call me Father,\nAnd thinke they are my Sonnes, are none of mine,\nThey are the yssue of your Loynes, my Liege,\nAnd blood of your begetting\nCym. How? my Issue\nBel. So sure as you, your Fathers: I (old Morgan)\nAm that Belarius, whom you sometime banish'd:\nYour pleasure was my neere offence, my punishment\nIt selfe, and all my Treason that I suffer'd,\nWas all the harme I did. These gentle Princes\n(For such, and so they are) these twenty yeares\nHaue I train'd vp; those Arts they haue, as I\nCould put into them. My breeding was (Sir)\nAs your Highnesse knowes: Their Nurse Euriphile\n(Whom for the Theft I wedded) stole these Children\nVpon my Banishment: I moou'd her too't,\nHauing receyu'd the punishment before\nFor that which I did then. Beaten for Loyaltie,\nExcited me to Treason. Their deere losse,\nThe more of you 'twas felt, the more it shap'd\nVnto my end of stealing them. But gracious Sir,\nHeere are your Sonnes againe, and I must loose\nTwo of the sweet'st Companions in the World.\nThe benediction of these couering Heauens\nFall on their heads like dew, for they are worthie\nTo in-lay Heauen with Starres\nCym. Thou weep'st, and speak'st:\nThe Seruice that you three haue done, is more\nVnlike, then this thou tell'st. I lost my Children,\nIf these be they, I know not how to wish\nA payre of worthier Sonnes\nBel. Be pleas'd awhile;\nThis Gentleman, whom I call Polidore,\nMost worthy Prince, as yours, is true Guiderius:\nThis Gentleman, my Cadwall, Aruiragus.\nYour yonger Princely Son, he Sir, was lapt\nIn a most curious Mantle, wrought by th' hand\nOf his Queene Mother, which for more probation\nI can with ease produce\nCym. Guiderius had\nVpon his necke a Mole, a sanguine Starre,\nIt was a marke of wonder\nBel. This is he,\nWho hath vpon him still that naturall stampe:\nIt was wise Natures end, in the donation\nTo be his euidence now\nCym. Oh, what am I\nA Mother to the byrth of three? Nere Mother\nReioyc'd deliuerance more: Blest, pray you be,\nThat after this strange starting from your Orbes,\nYou may reigne in them now: Oh Imogen,\nThou hast lost by this a Kingdome\nImo. No, my Lord:\nI haue got two Worlds by't. Oh my gentle Brothers,\nHaue we thus met? Oh neuer say heereafter\nBut I am truest speaker. You call'd me Brother\nWhen I was but your Sister: I you Brothers,\nWhen we were so indeed\nCym. Did you ere meete?\nArui. I my good Lord\nGui. And at first meeting lou'd,\nContinew'd so, vntill we thought he dyed\nCorn. By the Queenes Dramme she swallow'd\nCym. O rare instinct!\nWhen shall I heare all through? This fierce abridgment,\nHath to it Circumstantiall branches, which\nDistinction should be rich in. Where? how liu'd you?\nAnd when came you to serue our Romane Captiue?\nHow parted with your Brother? How first met them?\nWhy fled you from the Court? And whether these?\nAnd your three motiues to the Battaile? with\nI know not how much more should be demanded,\nAnd all the other by-dependances\nFrom chance to chance? But nor the Time, nor Place\nWill serue our long Interrogatories. See,\nPosthumus Anchors vpon Imogen;\nAnd she (like harmlesse Lightning) throwes her eye\nOn him: her Brothers, Me: her Master hitting\nEach obiect with a Ioy: the Counter-change\nIs seuerally in all. Let's quit this ground,\nAnd smoake the Temple with our Sacrifices.\nThou art my Brother, so wee'l hold thee euer\nImo. You are my Father too, and did releeue me:\nTo see this gracious season\nCym. All ore-ioy'd\nSaue these in bonds, let them be ioyfull too,\nFor they shall taste our Comfort\nImo. My good Master, I will yet do you seruice\nLuc. Happy be you\nCym. The forlorne Souldier, that so Nobly fought\nHe would haue well becom'd this place, and grac'd\nThe thankings of a King\nPost. I am Sir\nThe Souldier that did company these three\nIn poore beseeming: 'twas a fitment for\nThe purpose I then follow'd. That I was he,\nSpeake Iachimo, I had you downe, and might\nHaue made you finish\nIach. I am downe againe:\nBut now my heauie Conscience sinkes my knee,\nAs then your force did. Take that life, beseech you\nWhich I so often owe: but your Ring first,\nAnd heere the Bracelet of the truest Princesse\nThat euer swore the Faith\nPost. Kneele not to me:\nThe powre that I haue on you, is to spare you:\nThe malice towards you, to forgiue you. Liue\nAnd deale with others better\nCym. Nobly doom'd:\nWee'l learne our Freenesse of a Sonne-in-Law:\nPardon's the word to all\nArui. You holpe vs Sir,\nAs you did meane indeed to be our Brother,\nIoy'd are we, that you are\nPost. Your Seruant Princes. Good my Lord of Rome\nCall forth your Sooth-sayer: As I slept, me thought\nGreat Iupiter vpon his Eagle back'd\nAppear'd to me, with other sprightly shewes\nOf mine owne Kindred. When I wak'd, I found\nThis Labell on my bosome; whose containing\nIs so from sense in hardnesse, that I can\nMake no Collection of it. Let him shew\nHis skill in the construction\nLuc. Philarmonus\nSooth. Heere, my good Lord\nLuc. Read, and declare the meaning.\nReades.\nWhen as a Lyons whelpe, shall to himselfe vnknown, without\nseeking finde, and bee embrac'd by a peece of tender\nAyre: And when from a stately Cedar shall be lopt branches,\nwhich being dead many yeares, shall after reuiue, bee ioynted to\nthe old Stocke, and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end his\nmiseries, Britaine be fortunate, and flourish in Peace and Plentie.\nThou Leonatus art the Lyons Whelpe,\nThe fit and apt Construction of thy name\nBeing Leonatus, doth import so much:\nThe peece of tender Ayre, thy vertuous Daughter,\nWhich we call Mollis Aer, and Mollis Aer\nWe terme it Mulier; which Mulier I diuine\nIs this most constant Wife, who euen now\nAnswering the Letter of the Oracle,\nVnknowne to you vnsought, were clipt about\nWith this most tender Aire\nCym. This hath some seeming\nSooth. The lofty Cedar, Royall Cymbeline\nPersonates thee: And thy lopt Branches, point\nThy two Sonnes forth: who by Belarius stolne\nFor many yeares thought dead, are now reuiu'd\nTo the Maiesticke Cedar ioyn'd; whose Issue\nPromises Britaine, Peace and Plenty\nCym. Well,\nMy Peace we will begin: And Caius Lucius,\nAlthough the Victor, we submit to Caesar,\nAnd to the Romane Empire; promising\nTo pay our wonted Tribute, from the which\nWe were disswaded by our wicked Queene,\nWhom heauens in Iustice both on her, and hers,\nHaue laid most heauy hand\nSooth. The fingers of the Powres aboue, do tune\nThe harmony of this Peace: the Vision\nWhich I made knowne to Lucius ere the stroke\nOf yet this scarse-cold-Battaile, at this instant\nIs full accomplish'd. For the Romaine Eagle\nFrom South to West, on wing soaring aloft\nLessen'd her selfe, and in the Beames o'th' Sun\nSo vanish'd; which fore-shew'd our Princely Eagle\nTh' Imperiall Caesar, should againe vnite\nHis Fauour, with the Radiant Cymbeline,\nWhich shines heere in the West\nCym. Laud we the Gods,\nAnd let our crooked Smoakes climbe to their Nostrils\nFrom our blest Altars. Publish we this Peace\nTo all our Subiects. Set we forward: Let\nA Roman, and a Brittish Ensigne waue\nFriendly together: so through Luds-Towne march,\nAnd in the Temple of great Iupiter\nOur Peace wee'l ratifie: Seale it with Feasts.\nSet on there: Neuer was a Warre did cease\n(Ere bloodie hands were wash'd) with such a Peace.\nExeunt.\nFINIS. THE TRAGEDIE OF CYMBELINE.","title":"The Tragedie of Cymbeline","type":"page"}