Scene I

Britain. The garden of Cymbeline’s palace

First Gentleman

You do not meet a man but frowns; our bloods

No more obey the heavens than our courtiers

Still seem as does the King’s

Second Gentleman

But what’s the matter?

First Gentleman

His daughter, and the heir of’s kingdom, whom

He purpos’d to his wife’s sole son- a widow

That late he married- hath referr’d herself

Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She’s wedded;

Her husband banish’d; she imprison’d. All

Is outward sorrow, though I think the King

Be touch’d at very heart

Second Gentleman

None but the King?

First Gentleman

He that hath lost her too. So is the Queen,

That most desir’d the match. But not a courtier,

Although they wear their faces to the bent

Of the King’s looks, hath a heart that is not

Glad at the thing they scowl at

Second Gentleman

And why so?

First Gentleman

He that hath miss’d the Princess is a thing

Too bad for bad report; and he that hath her-

I mean that married her, alack, good man!

And therefore banish’d- is a creature such

As, to seek through the regions of the earth

For one his like, there would be something failing

In him that should compare. I do not think

So fair an outward and such stuff within

Endows a man but he

Second Gentleman

You speak him far

First Gentleman

I do extend him, sir, within himself;

Crush him together rather than unfold

His measure duly

Second Gentleman

What’s his name and birth?

First Gentleman

I cannot delve him to the root; his father

Was call’d Sicilius, who did join his honour

Against the Romans with Cassibelan,

But had his titles by Tenantius, whom

He serv’d with glory and admir’d success,

So gain’d the sur-addition Leonatus;

And had, besides this gentleman in question,

Two other sons, who, in the wars o’ th’ time,

Died with their swords in hand; for which their father,

Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow

That he quit being; and his gentle lady,

Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas’d

As he was born. The King he takes the babe

To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus,

Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber,

Puts to him all the learnings that his time

Could make him the receiver of; which he took,

As we do air, fast as ‘twas minist’red,

And in’s spring became a harvest, liv’d in court-

Which rare it is to do- most prais’d, most lov’d,

A sample to the youngest; to th’ more mature

A glass that feated them; and to the graver

A child that guided dotards. To his mistress,

For whom he now is banish’d- her own price

Proclaims how she esteem’d him and his virtue;

By her election may be truly read

What kind of man he is

Second Gentleman

I honour him

Even out of your report. But pray you tell me,

Is she sole child to th’ King?

First Gentleman

His only child

He had two sons- if this be worth your hearing,

Mark it- the eldest of them at three years old,

I’ th’ swathing clothes the other, from their nursery

Were stol’n; and to this hour no guess in knowledge

Which way they went

Second Gentleman

How long is this ago?

First Gentleman

Some twenty years

Second Gentleman

That a king’s children should be so convey’d,

So slackly guarded, and the search so slow

That could not trace them!

First Gentleman

Howsoe’er ‘tis strange,

Or that the negligence may well be laugh’d at,

Yet is it true, sir

Second Gentleman

I do well believe you

First Gentleman

We must forbear; here comes the gentleman,

The Queen, and Princess.

Exeunt

Enter the Queen, Posthumus, and Imogen

Queen

No, be assur’d you shall not find me, daughter,

After the slander of most stepmothers,

Evil-ey’d unto you. You’re my prisoner, but

Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys

That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus,

So soon as I can win th’ offended King,

I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet

The fire of rage is in him, and ‘twere good

You lean’d unto his sentence with what patience

Your wisdom may inform you

Posthumus

Please your Highness,

I will from hence to-day

Queen

You know the peril

I’ll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying

The pangs of barr’d affections, though the King

Hath charg’d you should not speak together.

Exit

Imogen

O dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant

Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband,

I something fear my father’s wrath, but nothing-

Always reserv’d my holy duty- what

His rage can do on me. You must be gone;

And I shall here abide the hourly shot

Of angry eyes, not comforted to live

But that there is this jewel in the world

That I may see again

Posthumus

My queen! my mistress!

O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause

To be suspected of more tenderness

Than doth become a man. I will remain

The loyal’st husband that did e’er plight troth;

My residence in Rome at one Philario’s,

Who to my father was a friend, to me

Known but by letter; thither write, my queen,

And with mine eyes I’ll drink the words you send,

Though ink be made of gall

Re-enter Queen

Queen

Be brief, I pray you

If the King come, I shall incur I know not

How much of his displeasure [Aside] Yet I’ll move him

To walk this way. I never do him wrong

But he does buy my injuries, to be friends;

Pays dear for my offences.

Exit

Posthumus

Should we be taking leave

As long a term as yet we have to live,

The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu!

Imogen

Nay, stay a little

Were you but riding forth to air yourself,

Such parting were too petty. Look here, love:

This diamond was my mother’s; take it, heart;

But keep it till you woo another wife,

When Imogen is dead

Posthumus

How, how? Another?

You gentle gods, give me but this I have,

And sear up my embracements from a next

With bonds of death! Remain, remain thou here

[Puts on the ring]

While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest,

As I my poor self did exchange for you,

To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles

I still win of you. For my sake wear this;

It is a manacle of love; I’ll place it

Upon this fairest prisoner.

[Puts a bracelet on her arm]

Imogen

O the gods!

When shall we see again?

Enter Cymbeline and Lords

Posthumus

Alack, the King!

Cymbeline

Thou basest thing, avoid; hence from my sight

If after this command thou fraught the court

With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away!

Thou’rt poison to my blood

Posthumus

The gods protect you,

And bless the good remainders of the court!

I am gone.

Exit

Imogen

There cannot be a pinch in death

More sharp than this is

Cymbeline

O disloyal thing,

That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap’st

A year’s age on me!

Imogen

I beseech you, sir,

Harm not yourself with your vexation

I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare

Subdues all pangs, all fears

Cymbeline

Past grace? obedience?

Imogen

Past hope, and in despair; that way past grace

Cymbeline

That mightst have had the sole son of my queen!

Imogen

O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle,

And did avoid a puttock

Cymbeline

Thou took’st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne

A seat for baseness

Imogen

No; I rather added

A lustre to it

Cymbeline

O thou vile one!

Imogen

Sir,

It is your fault that I have lov’d Posthumus

You bred him as my playfellow, and he is

A man worth any woman; overbuys me

Almost the sum he pays

Cymbeline

What, art thou mad?

Imogen

Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were

A neat-herd’s daughter, and my Leonatus

Our neighbour shepherd’s son!

Re-enter Queen

Cymbeline

Thou foolish thing!

[To the Queen] They were again together. You have done

Not after our command. Away with her,

And pen her up

Queen

Beseech your patience.- Peace,

Dear lady daughter, peace!- Sweet sovereign,

Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort

Out of your best advice

Cymbeline

Nay, let her languish

A drop of blood a day and, being aged,

Die of this folly

Exit, with Lords

Enter Pisanio

Queen

Fie! you must give way

Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news?

Pisanio

My lord your son drew on my master

Queen

Ha!

No harm, I trust, is done?

Pisanio

There might have been,

But that my master rather play’d than fought,

And had no help of anger; they were parted

By gentlemen at hand

Queen

I am very glad on’t

Imogen

Your son’s my father’s friend; he takes his part

To draw upon an exile! O brave sir!

I would they were in Afric both together;

Myself by with a needle, that I might prick

The goer-back. Why came you from your master?

Pisanio

On his command. He would not suffer me

To bring him to the haven; left these notes

Of what commands I should be subject to,

When’t pleas’d you to employ me

Queen

This hath been

Your faithful servant. I dare lay mine honour

He will remain so

Pisanio

I humbly thank your Highness

Queen

Pray walk awhile

Imogen

About some half-hour hence,

Pray you speak with me. You shall at least

Go see my lord aboard. For this time leave me.

Exeunt

Scene II

Britain. A public place

Enter Cloten and two Lords

First Lord

Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence

of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out,

air comes in; there’s none abroad so wholesome as that you vent

Cloten

If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him?

Second Lord

Aside] No, faith; not so much as his patience

First Lord

Hurt him! His body’s a passable carcass if he be not

hurt. It is a throughfare for steel if it be not hurt

Second Lord

[Aside] His steel was in debt; it went o’ th’ back

side the town

Cloten

The villain would not stand me

Second Lord

[Aside] No; but he fled forward still, toward your

face

First Lord

Stand you? You have land enough of your own; but he

added to your having, gave you some ground

Second Lord

[Aside] As many inches as you have oceans

Puppies!

Cloten

I would they had not come between us

Second Lord

[Aside] So would I, till you had measur’d how long a

fool you were upon the ground

Cloten

And that she should love this fellow, and refuse me!

Second Lord

[Aside] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is

damn’d

First Lord

Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go

not together; she’s a good sign, but I have seen small reflection

of her wit

Second Lord

[Aside] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection

should hurt her

Cloten

Come, I’ll to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt

done!

Second Lord

[Aside] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of

an ass, which is no great hurt

Cloten

You’ll go with us?

First Lord

I’ll attend your lordship

Cloten

Nay, come, let’s go together

Second Lord

Well, my lord.

Exeunt

Scene III

Britain. Cymbeline’s palace

Enter Imogen and Pisanio

Imogen

I would thou grew’st unto the shores o’ th’ haven,

And questioned’st every sail; if he should write,

And I not have it, ‘twere a paper lost,

As offer’d mercy is. What was the last

That he spake to thee?

Pisanio

It was: his queen, his queen!

Imogen

Then wav’d his handkerchief?

Pisanio

And kiss’d it, madam

Imogen

Senseless linen, happier therein than I!

And that was all?

Pisanio

No, madam; for so long

As he could make me with his eye, or care

Distinguish him from others, he did keep

The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief,

Still waving, as the fits and stirs of’s mind

Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on,

How swift his ship

Imogen

Thou shouldst have made him

As little as a crow, or less, ere left

To after-eye him

Pisanio

Madam, so I did

Imogen

I would have broke mine eyestrings, crack’d them but

To look upon him, till the diminution

Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle;

Nay, followed him till he had melted from

The smallness of a gnat to air, and then

Have turn’d mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio,

When shall we hear from him?

Pisanio

Be assur’d, madam,

With his next vantage

Imogen

I did not take my leave of him, but had

Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him

How I would think on him at certain hours

Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear

The shes of Italy should not betray

Mine interest and his honour; or have charg’d him,

At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight,

T’ encounter me with orisons, for then

I am in heaven for him; or ere I could

Give him that parting kiss which I had set

Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father,

And like the tyrannous breathing of the north

Shakes all our buds from growing

Enter a Lady

Lady

The Queen, madam,

Desires your Highness’ company

Imogen

Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch’d

I will attend the Queen

Pisanio

Madam, I shall

Exeunt

Scene IV

Rome. Philario’s house

Enter Philario, Iachimo, a Frenchman, a Dutchman, and a Spaniard

Iachimo

Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain. He was then

of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath

been allowed the name of. But I could then have look’d on him

without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his

endowments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by

items

Philario

You speak of him when he was less furnish’d than now he

is with that which makes him both without and within

Frenchman

I have seen him in France; we had very many there could

behold the sun with as firm eyes as he

Iachimo

This matter of marrying his king’s daughter, wherein he

must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I

doubt not, a great deal from the matter

Frenchman

And then his banishment

Iachimo

Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable

divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him, be it

but to fortify her judgment, which else an easy battery might lay

flat, for taking a beggar, without less quality. But how comes it

he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance?

Philario

His father and I were soldiers together, to whom I have

been often bound for no less than my life

Enter Posthumus

Here comes the Briton. Let him be so entertained amongst you as

suits with gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his

quality. I beseech you all be better known to this gentleman,

whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine. How worthy he is

I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his

own hearing

Frenchman

Sir, we have known together in Orleans

Posthumus

Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies,

which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still

Frenchman

Sir, you o’errate my poor kindness. I was glad I did

atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have

been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore,

upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature

Posthumus

By your pardon, sir. I was then a young traveller;

rather shunn’d to go even with what I heard than in my every

action to be guided by others’ experiences; but upon my mended

judgment- if I offend not to say it is mended- my quarrel was not

altogether slight

Frenchman

Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and

by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the

other or have fall’n both

Iachimo

Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference?

Frenchman

Safely, I think. ‘Twas a contention in public, which

may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like

an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in

praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time

vouching- and upon warrant of bloody affirmation- his to be more

fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less

attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France

Iachimo

That lady is not now living, or this gentleman’s opinion,

by this, worn out

Posthumus

She holds her virtue still, and I my mind

Iachimo

You must not so far prefer her fore ours of Italy

Posthumus

Being so far provok’d as I was in France, I would abate

her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend

Iachimo

As fair and as good- a kind of hand-in-hand comparison-

had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain

If she went before others I have seen as that diamond of yours

outlustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she

excelled many; but I have not seen the most precious diamond that

is, nor you the lady

Posthumus

I prais’d her as I rated her. So do I my stone

Iachimo

What do you esteem it at?

Posthumus

More than the world enjoys

Iachimo

Either your unparagon’d mistress is dead, or she’s

outpriz’d by a trifle

Posthumus

You are mistaken: the one may be sold or given, if there

were wealth enough for the purchase or merit for the gift; the

other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods

Iachimo

Which the gods have given you?

Posthumus

Which by their graces I will keep

Iachimo

You may wear her in title yours; but you know strange fowl

light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stol’n too. So

your brace of unprizable estimations, the one is but frail and

the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that-way-accomplish’d

courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last

Posthumus

Your Italy contains none so accomplish’d a courtier to

convince the honour of my mistress, if in the holding or loss of

that you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of

thieves; notwithstanding, I fear not my ring

Philario

Let us leave here, gentlemen

Posthumus

Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank

him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first

Iachimo

With five times so much conversation I should get ground

of your fair mistress; make her go back even to the yielding, had

I admittance and opportunity to friend

Posthumus

No, no

Iachimo

I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your

ring, which, in my opinion, o’ervalues it something. But I make

my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation; and,

to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any

lady in the world

Posthumus

You are a great deal abus’d in too bold a persuasion,

and I doubt not you sustain what y’are worthy of by your attempt

Iachimo

What’s that?

Posthumus

A repulse; though your attempt, as you call it, deserve

more- a punishment too

Philario

Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly; let

it die as it was born, and I pray you be better acquainted

Iachimo

Would I had put my estate and my neighbour’s on th’

approbation of what I have spoke!

Posthumus

What lady would you choose to assail?

Iachimo

Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will

lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring that, commend me to the

court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the

opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence

that honour of hers which you imagine so reserv’d

Posthumus

I will wage against your gold, gold to it. My ring I

hold dear as my finger; ‘tis part of it

Iachimo

You are a friend, and therein the wiser. If you buy

ladies’ flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from

tainting. But I see you have some religion in you, that you fear

Posthumus

This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver

purpose, I hope

Iachimo

I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what’s

spoken, I swear

Posthumus

Will you? I Shall but lend my diamond till your return

Let there be covenants drawn between’s. My mistress exceeds in

goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking. I dare you to

this match: here’s my ring

Philario

I will have it no lay

Iachimo

By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient

testimony that I have enjoy’d the dearest bodily part of your

mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond

too. If I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have

trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours-

provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment

Posthumus

I embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt

us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon

her, and give me directly to understand you have prevail’d, I am

no further your enemy- she is not worth our debate; if she remain

unseduc’d, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill

opinion and th’ assault you have made to her chastity you shall

answer me with your sword

Iachimo

Your hand- a covenant! We will have these things set down

by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the

bargain should catch cold and starve. I will fetch my gold and

have our two wagers recorded

Posthumus

Agreed

Exeunt Posthumus and Iachimo

Frenchman

Will this hold, think you?

Philario

Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray let us follow ‘em

Exeunt

Scene V

Britain. Cymbeline’s palace

Enter Queen, Ladies, and Cornelius

Queen

Whiles yet the dew’s on ground, gather those flowers;

Make haste; who has the note of them?

Lady

I, madam

Queen

Dispatch

Exeunt Ladies

Now, Master Doctor, have you brought those drugs?

Cornelius

Pleaseth your Highness, ay. Here they are, madam

[Presenting a box]

But I beseech your Grace, without offence-

My conscience bids me ask- wherefore you have

Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds

Which are the movers of a languishing death,

But, though slow, deadly?

Queen

I wonder, Doctor,

Thou ask’st me such a question. Have I not been

Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn’d me how

To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so

That our great king himself doth woo me oft

For my confections? Having thus far proceeded-

Unless thou think’st me devilish- is’t not meet

That I did amplify my judgment in

Other conclusions? I will try the forces

Of these thy compounds on such creatures as

We count not worth the hanging- but none human-

To try the vigour of them, and apply

Allayments to their act, and by them gather

Their several virtues and effects

Cornelius

Your Highness

Shall from this practice but make hard your heart;

Besides, the seeing these effects will be

Both noisome and infectious

Queen

O, content thee

Enter Pisanio

[Aside] Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him

Will I first work. He’s for his master,

An enemy to my son.- How now, Pisanio!

Doctor, your service for this time is ended;

Take your own way

Cornelius

[Aside ]I do suspect you, madam;

But you shall do no harm

Queen

[To Pisanio] Hark thee, a word

Cornelius

[Aside] I do not like her. She doth think she has

Strange ling’ring poisons. I do know her spirit,

And will not trust one of her malice with

A drug of such damn’d nature. Those she has

Will stupefy and dull the sense awhile,

Which first perchance she’ll prove on cats and dogs,

Then afterward up higher; but there is

No danger in what show of death it makes,

More than the locking up the spirits a time,

To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool’d

With a most false effect; and I the truer

So to be false with her

Queen

No further service, Doctor,

Until I send for thee

Cornelius

I humbly take my leave

Exit

Queen

Weeps she still, say’st thou? Dost thou think in time

She will not quench, and let instructions enter

Where folly now possesses? Do thou work

When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son,

I’ll tell thee on the instant thou art then

As great as is thy master; greater, for

His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name

Is at last gasp. Return he cannot, nor

Continue where he is. To shift his being

Is to exchange one misery with another,

And every day that comes comes comes to

A day’s work in him. What shalt thou expect

To be depender on a thing that leans,

Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends

So much as but to prop him?

[The Queen drops the box. Pisanio takes it up]

Thou tak’st up

Thou know’st not what; but take it for thy labour

It is a thing I made, which hath the King

Five times redeem’d from death. I do not know

What is more cordial. Nay, I prithee take it;

It is an earnest of a further good

That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how

The case stands with her; do’t as from thyself

Think what a chance thou changest on; but think

Thou hast thy mistress still; to boot, my son,

Who shall take notice of thee. I’ll move the King

To any shape of thy preferment, such

As thou’lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly,

That set thee on to this desert, am bound

To load thy merit richly. Call my women

Think on my words.

Exit Pisanio

A sly and constant knave,

Not to be shak’d; the agent for his master,

And the remembrancer of her to hold

The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that

Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her

Of leigers for her sweet; and which she after,

Except she bend her humour, shall be assur’d

To taste of too

Re-enter Pisanio and Ladies

So, so. Well done, well done

The violets, cowslips, and the primroses,

Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio;

Think on my words

Exeunt Queen and Ladies

Pisanio

And shall do

But when to my good lord I prove untrue

I’ll choke myself- there’s all I’ll do for you

Exit

Scene VI

Britain. The palace

Enter Imogen alone

Imogen

A father cruel and a step-dame false;

A foolish suitor to a wedded lady

That hath her husband banish’d. O, that husband!

My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated

Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol’n,

As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable

Is the desire that’s glorious. Blessed be those,

How mean soe’er, that have their honest wills,

Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie!

Enter Pisanio and Iachimo

Pisanio

Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome

Comes from my lord with letters

Iachimo

Change you, madam?

The worthy Leonatus is in safety,

And greets your Highness dearly.

[Presents a letter]

Imogen

Thanks, good sir

You’re kindly welcome

Iachimo

[Aside] All of her that is out of door most rich!

If she be furnish’d with a mind so rare,

She is alone th’ Arabian bird, and I

Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend!

Arm me, audacity, from head to foot!

Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight;

Rather, directly fly

Imogen

[Reads] ‘He is one of the noblest note, to whose

kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him

accordingly, as you value your trust.Leonatus.’

So far I read aloud;

But even the very middle of my heart

Is warm’d by th’ rest and takes it thankfully

You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I

Have words to bid you; and shall find it so

In all that I can do

Iachimo

Thanks, fairest lady

What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes

To see this vaulted arch and the rich crop

Of sea and land, which can distinguish ‘twixt

The fiery orbs above and the twinn’d stones

Upon the number’d beach, and can we not

Partition make with spectacles so precious

‘Twixt fair and foul?

Imogen

What makes your admiration?

Iachimo

It cannot be i’ th’ eye, for apes and monkeys,

‘Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way and

Contemn with mows the other; nor i’ th’ judgment,

For idiots in this case of favour would

Be wisely definite; nor i’ th’ appetite;

Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos’d,

Should make desire vomit emptiness,

Not so allur’d to feed

Imogen

What is the matter, trow?

Iachimo

The cloyed will-

That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub

Both fill’d and running- ravening first the lamb,

Longs after for the garbage

Imogen

What, dear sir,

Thus raps you? Are you well?

Iachimo

Thanks, madam; well.- Beseech you, sir,

Desire my man’s abode where I did leave him

He’s strange and peevish

Pisanio

I was going, sir,

To give him welcome

Exit

Imogen

Continues well my lord? His health beseech you?

Iachimo

Well, madam

Imogen

Is he dispos’d to mirth? I hope he is

Iachimo

Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there

So merry and so gamesome. He is call’d

The Britain reveller

Imogen

When he was here

He did incline to sadness, and oft-times

Not knowing why

Iachimo

I never saw him sad

There is a Frenchman his companion, one

An eminent monsieur that, it seems, much loves

A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces

The thick sighs from him; whiles the jolly Briton-

Your lord, I mean- laughs from’s free lungs, cries ‘O,

Can my sides hold, to think that man- who knows

By history, report, or his own proof,

What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose

But must be- will’s free hours languish for

Assured bondage?’

Imogen

Will my lord say so?

Iachimo

Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter

It is a recreation to be by

And hear him mock the Frenchman. But heavens know

Some men are much to blame

Imogen

Not he, I hope

Iachimo

Not he; but yet heaven’s bounty towards him might

Be us’d more thankfully. In himself, ‘tis much;

In you, which I account his, beyond all talents

Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound

To pity too

Imogen

What do you pity, sir?

Iachimo

Two creatures heartily

Imogen

Am I one, sir?

You look on me: what wreck discern you in me

Deserves your pity?

Iachimo

Lamentable! What,

To hide me from the radiant sun and solace

I’ th’ dungeon by a snuff?

Imogen

I pray you, sir,

Deliver with more openness your answers

To my demands. Why do you pity me?

Iachimo

That others do,

I was about to say, enjoy your- But

It is an office of the gods to venge it,

Not mine to speak on’t

Imogen

You do seem to know

Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you-

Since doubting things go ill often hurts more

Than to be sure they do; for certainties

Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing,

The remedy then born- discover to me

What both you spur and stop

Iachimo

Had I this cheek

To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,

Whose every touch, would force the feeler’s soul

To th’ oath of loyalty; this object, which

Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,

Fixing it only here; should I, damn’d then,

Slaver with lips as common as the stairs

That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands

Made hard with hourly falsehood- falsehood as

With labour; then by-peeping in an eye

Base and illustrious as the smoky light

That’s fed with stinking tallow- it were fit

That all the plagues of hell should at one time

Encounter such revolt

Imogen

My lord, I fear,

Has forgot Britain

Iachimo

And himself. Not I

Inclin’d to this intelligence pronounce

The beggary of his change; but ‘tis your graces

That from my mutest conscience to my tongue

Charms this report out

Imogen

Let me hear no more

Iachimo

O dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart

With pity that doth make me sick! A lady

So fair, and fasten’d to an empery,

Would make the great’st king double, to be partner’d

With tomboys hir’d with that self exhibition

Which your own coffers yield! with diseas’d ventures

That play with all infirmities for gold

Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil’d stuff

As well might poison poison! Be reveng’d;

Or she that bore you was no queen, and you

Recoil from your great stock

Imogen

Reveng’d?

How should I be reveng’d? If this be true-

As I have such a heart that both mine ears

Must not in haste abuse- if it be true,

How should I be reveng’d?

Iachimo

Should he make me

Live like Diana’s priest betwixt cold sheets,

Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps,

In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it

I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure,

More noble than that runagate to your bed,

And will continue fast to your affection,

Still close as sure

Imogen

What ho, Pisanio!

Iachimo

Let me my service tender on your lips

Imogen

Away! I do condemn mine ears that have

So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable,

Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not

For such an end thou seek’st, as base as strange

Thou wrong’st a gentleman who is as far

From thy report as thou from honour; and

Solicits here a lady that disdains

Thee and the devil alike.- What ho, Pisanio!-

The King my father shall be made acquainted

Of thy assault. If he shall think it fit

A saucy stranger in his court to mart

As in a Romish stew, and to expound

His beastly mind to us, he hath a court

He little cares for, and a daughter who

He not respects at all.- What ho, Pisanio!

Iachimo

O happy Leonatus! I may say

The credit that thy lady hath of thee

Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness

Her assur’d credit. Blessed live you long,

A lady to the worthiest sir that ever

Country call’d his! and you his mistress, only

For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon

I have spoke this to know if your affiance

Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord

That which he is new o’er; and he is one

The truest manner’d, such a holy witch

That he enchants societies into him,

Half all men’s hearts are his

Imogen

You make amends

Iachimo

He sits ‘mongst men like a descended god:

He hath a kind of honour sets him of

More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry,

Most mighty Princess, that I have adventur’d

To try your taking of a false report, which hath

Honour’d with confirmation your great judgment

In the election of a sir so rare,

Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him

Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you,

Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray your pardon

Imogen

All’s well, sir; take my pow’r i’ th’ court for yours

Iachimo

My humble thanks. I had almost forgot

T’ entreat your Grace but in a small request,

And yet of moment too, for it concerns

Your lord; myself and other noble friends

Are partners in the business

Imogen

Pray what is’t?

Iachimo

Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord-

The best feather of our wing- have mingled sums

To buy a present for the Emperor;

Which I, the factor for the rest, have done

In France. ‘Tis plate of rare device, and jewels

Of rich and exquisite form, their values great;

And I am something curious, being strange,

To have them in safe stowage. May it please you

To take them in protection?

Imogen

Willingly;

And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since

My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them

In my bedchamber

Iachimo

They are in a trunk,

Attended by my men. I will make bold

To send them to you only for this night;

I must aboard to-morrow

Imogen

O, no, no

Iachimo

Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word

By length’ning my return. From Gallia

I cross’d the seas on purpose and on promise

To see your Grace

Imogen

I thank you for your pains

But not away to-morrow!

Iachimo

O, I must, madam

Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please

To greet your lord with writing, do’t to-night

I have outstood my time, which is material

‘To th’ tender of our present

Imogen

I will write

Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept

And truly yielded you. You’re very welcome.

Exeunt

Act II

Scene I

Britain. Before Cymbeline’s palace

Enter Cloten and the two Lords

Cloten

Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss’d the jack,

upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on’t; and

then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I

borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my

pleasure

First Lord

What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your

bowl

Second Lord

[Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it

would have run all out

Cloten

When a gentleman is dispos’d to swear, it is not for any

standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha?

Second Lord

No, my lord; [Aside] nor crop the ears of them

Cloten

Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction? Would he had been

one of my rank!

Second Lord

[Aside] To have smell’d like a fool

Cloten

I am not vex’d more at anything in th’ earth. A pox on’t! I

had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me,

because of the Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his bellyful

of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody

can match

Second Lord

[Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow,

cock, with your comb on

Cloten

Sayest thou?

Second Lord

It is not fit your lordship should undertake every

companion that you give offence to

Cloten

No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to

my inferiors

Second Lord

Ay, it is fit for your lordship only

Cloten

Why, so I say

First Lord

Did you hear of a stranger that’s come to court

to-night?

Cloten

A stranger, and I not known on’t?

Second Lord

[Aside] He’s a strange fellow himself, and knows it

not

First Lord

There’s an Italian come, and, ‘tis thought, one of

Leonatus’ friends

Cloten

Leonatus? A banish’d rascal; and he’s another, whatsoever

he be. Who told you of this stranger?

First Lord

One of your lordship’s pages

Cloten

Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation

in’t?

Second Lord

You cannot derogate, my lord

Cloten

Not easily, I think

Second Lord

[Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues,

being foolish, do not derogate

Cloten

Come, I’ll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at

bowls I’ll win to-night of him. Come, go

Second Lord

I’ll attend your lordship

Exeunt Cloten and First Lord

That such a crafty devil as is his mother

Should yield the world this ass! A woman that

Bears all down with her brain; and this her son

Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart,

And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess,

Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur’st,

Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern’d,

A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer

More hateful than the foul expulsion is

Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act

Of the divorce he’d make! The heavens hold firm

The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak’d

That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand

T’ enjoy thy banish’d lord and this great land!

Exit

Scene II

Britain. Imogen’s bedchamber in Cymbeline’s palace; a trunk in one corner

Enter Imogen in her bed, and a Lady attending

Imogen

Who’s there? My woman? Helen?

Lady

Please you, madam

Imogen

What hour is it?

Lady

Almost midnight, madam

Imogen

I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak;

Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed

Take not away the taper, leave it burning;

And if thou canst awake by four o’ th’ clock,

I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz’d me wholly

Exit Lady

To your protection I commend me, gods

From fairies and the tempters of the night

Guard me, beseech ye!

[Sleeps. Iachimo comes from the trunk]

Iachimo

The crickets sing, and man’s o’er-labour’d sense

Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus

Did softly press the rushes ere he waken’d

The chastity he wounded. Cytherea,

How bravely thou becom’st thy bed! fresh lily,

And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!

But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon’d,

How dearly they do’t! ‘Tis her breathing that

Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o’ th’ taper

Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids

To see th’ enclosed lights, now canopied

Under these windows white and azure, lac’d

With blue of heaven’s own tinct. But my design

To note the chamber. I will write all down:

Such and such pictures; there the window; such

Th’ adornment of her bed; the arras, figures-

Why, such and such; and the contents o’ th’ story

Ah, but some natural notes about her body

Above ten thousand meaner movables

Would testify, t’ enrich mine inventory

O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her!

And be her sense but as a monument,

Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off;

[Taking off her bracelet]

As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard!

‘Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly,

As strongly as the conscience does within,

To th’ madding of her lord. On her left breast

A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops

I’ th’ bottom of a cowslip. Here’s a voucher

Stronger than ever law could make; this secret

Will force him think I have pick’d the lock and ta’en

The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end?

Why should I write this down that’s riveted,

Screw’d to my memory? She hath been reading late

The tale of Tereus; here the leaf’s turn’d down

Where Philomel gave up. I have enough

To th’ trunk again, and shut the spring of it

Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning

May bare the raven’s eye! I lodge in fear;

Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here.

[Clock strikes]

One, two, three. Time, time!

Exit into the trunk

Scene III

Cymbeline’s palace. An ante-chamber adjoining Imogen’s apartments

Enter Cloten and Lords

First Lord

Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most

coldest that ever turn’d up ace

Cloten

It would make any man cold to lose

First Lord

But not every man patient after the noble temper of

your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win

Cloten

Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this

foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It’s almost morning,

is’t not?

First Lord

Day, my lord

Cloten

I would this music would come. I am advised to give her

music a mornings; they say it will penetrate

Enter musicians

Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so

We’ll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but

I’ll never give o’er. First, a very excellent good-conceited

thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to

it- and then let her consider

Song

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,

And Phoebus ‘gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chalic’d flow’rs that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes

With everything that pretty bin,

My lady sweet, arise;

Arise, arise!

So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music

the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which

horsehairs and calves’ guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to

boot, can never amend

Exeunt musicians

Enter Cymbeline and Queen

Second Lord

Here comes the King

Cloten

I am glad I was up so late, for that’s the reason I was up

so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done

fatherly.- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother

Cymbeline

Attend you here the door of our stern daughter?

Will she not forth?

Cloten

I have assail’d her with musics, but she vouchsafes no

notice

Cymbeline

The exile of her minion is too new;

She hath not yet forgot him; some more time

Must wear the print of his remembrance out,

And then she’s yours

Queen

You are most bound to th’ King,

Who lets go by no vantages that may

Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself

To orderly soliciting, and be friended

With aptness of the season; make denials

Increase your services; so seem as if

You were inspir’d to do those duties which

You tender to her; that you in all obey her,

Save when command to your dismission tends,

And therein you are senseless

Cloten

Senseless? Not so

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome;

The one is Caius Lucius

Cymbeline

A worthy fellow,

Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;

But that’s no fault of his. We must receive him

According to the honour of his sender;

And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us,

We must extend our notice. Our dear son,

When you have given good morning to your mistress,

Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need

T’ employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen

Exeunt all but Cloten

Cloten

If she be up, I’ll speak with her; if not,

Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho![Knocks]

I know her women are about her; what

If I do line one of their hands? ‘Tis gold

Which buys admittance; oft it doth-yea, and makes

Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up

Their deer to th’ stand o’ th’ stealer; and ‘tis gold

Which makes the true man kill’d and saves the thief;

Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What

Can it not do and undo? I will make

One of her women lawyer to me, for

I yet not understand the case myself

By your leave.[Knocks]

Enter a Lady

Lady

Who’s there that knocks?

Cloten

A gentleman

Lady

No more?

Cloten

Yes, and a gentlewoman’s son

Lady

That’s more

Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours

Can justly boast of. What’s your lordship’s pleasure?

Cloten

Your lady’s person; is she ready?

Lady

Ay,

To keep her chamber

Cloten

There is gold for you; sell me your good report

Lady

How? My good name? or to report of you

What I shall think is good? The Princess!

Enter Imogen

Cloten

Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand

Exit Lady

Imogen

Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains

For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give

Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,

And scarce can spare them

Cloten

Still I swear I love you

Imogen

If you but said so, ‘twere as deep with me

If you swear still, your recompense is still

That I regard it not

Cloten

This is no answer

Imogen

But that you shall not say I yield, being silent,

I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith,

I shall unfold equal discourtesy

To your best kindness; one of your great knowing

Should learn, being taught, forbearance

Cloten

To leave you in your madness ‘twere my sin;

I will not

Imogen

Fools are not mad folks

Cloten

Do you call me fool?

Imogen

As I am mad, I do;

If you’ll be patient, I’ll no more be mad;

That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir,

You put me to forget a lady’s manners

By being so verbal; and learn now, for all,

That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,

By th’ very truth of it, I care not for you,

And am so near the lack of charity

To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather

You felt than make’t my boast

Cloten

You sin against

Obedience, which you owe your father. For

The contract you pretend with that base wretch,

One bred of alms and foster’d with cold dishes,

With scraps o’ th’ court- it is no contract, none

And though it be allowed in meaner parties-

Yet who than he more mean?- to knit their souls-

On whom there is no more dependency

But brats and beggary- in self-figur’d knot,

Yet you are curb’d from that enlargement by

The consequence o’ th’ crown, and must not foil

The precious note of it with a base slave,

A hilding for a livery, a squire’s cloth,

A pantler- not so eminent!

Imogen

Profane fellow!

Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more

But what thou art besides, thou wert too base

To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough,

Even to the point of envy, if ‘twere made

Comparative for your virtues to be styl’d

The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated

For being preferr’d so well

Cloten

The south fog rot him!

Imogen

He never can meet more mischance than come

To be but nam’d of thee. His mean’st garment

That ever hath but clipp’d his body is dearer

In my respect than all the hairs above thee,

Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio!

Enter Pisanio

Cloten

‘His garments’! Now the devil-

Imogen

To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently

Cloten

‘His garment’!

Imogen

I am sprited with a fool;

Frighted, and ang’red worse. Go bid my woman

Search for a jewel that too casually

Hath left mine arm. It was thy master’s; shrew me,

If I would lose it for a revenue

Of any king’s in Europe! I do think

I saw’t this morning; confident I am

Last night ‘twas on mine arm; I kiss’d it

I hope it be not gone to tell my lord

That I kiss aught but he

Pisanio

‘Twill not be lost

Imogen

I hope so. Go and search

Exit Pisanio

Cloten

You have abus’d me

‘His meanest garment’!

Imogen

Ay, I said so, sir

If you will make ‘t an action, call witness to ‘t

Cloten

I will inform your father

Imogen

Your mother too

She’s my good lady and will conceive, I hope,

But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir,

To th’ worst of discontent

Exit

Cloten

I’ll be reveng’d

‘His mean’st garment’! Well

Exit

Scene IV

Rome. Philario’s house

Enter Posthumus and Philario

Posthumus

Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure

To win the King as I am bold her honour

Will remain hers

Philario

What means do you make to him?

Posthumus

Not any; but abide the change of time,

Quake in the present winter’s state, and wish

That warmer days would come. In these fear’d hopes

I barely gratify your love; they failing,

I must die much your debtor

Philario

Your very goodness and your company

O’erpays all I can do. By this your king

Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius

Will do’s commission throughly; and I think

He’ll grant the tribute, send th’ arrearages,

Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance

Is yet fresh in their grief

Posthumus

I do believe

Statist though I am none, nor like to be,

That this will prove a war; and you shall hear

The legions now in Gallia sooner landed

In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings

Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen

Are men more order’d than when Julius Caesar

Smil’d at their lack of skill, but found their courage

Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline,

Now mingled with their courages, will make known

To their approvers they are people such

That mend upon the world

Enter Iachimo

Philario

See! Iachimo!

Posthumus

The swiftest harts have posted you by land,

And winds of all the comers kiss’d your sails,

To make your vessel nimble

Philario

Welcome, sir

Posthumus

I hope the briefness of your answer made

The speediness of your return

Iachimo

Your lady

Is one of the fairest that I have look’d upon

Posthumus

And therewithal the best; or let her beauty

Look through a casement to allure false hearts,

And be false with them

Iachimo

Here are letters for you

Posthumus

Their tenour good, I trust

Iachimo

‘Tis very like

Philario

Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court

When you were there?

Iachimo

He was expected then,

But not approach’d

Posthumus

All is well yet

Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is’t not

Too dull for your good wearing?

Iachimo

If I have lost it,

I should have lost the worth of it in gold

I’ll make a journey twice as far t’ enjoy

A second night of such sweet shortness which

Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won

Posthumus

The stone’s too hard to come by

Iachimo

Not a whit,

Your lady being so easy

Posthumus

Make not, sir,

Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we

Must not continue friends

Iachimo

Good sir, we must,

If you keep covenant. Had I not brought

The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant

We were to question farther; but I now

Profess myself the winner of her honour,

Together with your ring; and not the wronger

Of her or you, having proceeded but

By both your wills

Posthumus

If you can make’t apparent

That you have tasted her in bed, my hand

And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion

You had of her pure honour gains or loses

Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both

To who shall find them

Iachimo

Sir, my circumstances,

Being so near the truth as I will make them,

Must first induce you to believe- whose strength

I will confirm with oath; which I doubt not

You’ll give me leave to spare when you shall find

You need it not

Posthumus

Proceed

Iachimo

First, her bedchamber,

Where I confess I slept not, but profess

Had that was well worth watching-it was hang’d

With tapestry of silk and silver; the story,

Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman

And Cydnus swell’d above the banks, or for

The press of boats or pride. A piece of work

So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive

In workmanship and value; which I wonder’d

Could be so rarely and exactly wrought,

Since the true life on’t was-

Posthumus

This is true;

And this you might have heard of here, by me

Or by some other

Iachimo

More particulars

Must justify my knowledge

Posthumus

So they must,

Or do your honour injury

Iachimo

The chimney

Is south the chamber, and the chimneypiece

Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures

So likely to report themselves. The cutter

Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her,

Motion and breath left out

Posthumus

This is a thing

Which you might from relation likewise reap,

Being, as it is, much spoke of

Iachimo

The roof o’ th’ chamber

With golden cherubins is fretted; her andirons-

I had forgot them- were two winking Cupids

Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely

Depending on their brands

Posthumus

This is her honour!

Let it be granted you have seen all this, and praise

Be given to your remembrance; the description

Of what is in her chamber nothing saves

The wager you have laid

Iachimo

Then, if you can,[Shows the bracelet]

Be pale. I beg but leave to air this jewel. See!

And now ‘tis up again. It must be married

To that your diamond; I’ll keep them

Posthumus

Jove!

Once more let me behold it. Is it that

Which I left with her?

Iachimo

Sir- I thank her- that

She stripp’d it from her arm; I see her yet;

Her pretty action did outsell her gift,

And yet enrich’d it too. She gave it me, and said

She priz’d it once

Posthumus

May be she pluck’d it of

To send it me

Iachimo

She writes so to you, doth she?

Posthumus

O, no, no, no! ‘tis true. Here, take this too;

[Gives the ring]

It is a basilisk unto mine eye,

Kills me to look on’t. Let there be no honour

Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love

Where there’s another man. The vows of women

Of no more bondage be to where they are made

Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing

O, above measure false!

Philario

Have patience, sir,

And take your ring again; ‘tis not yet won

It may be probable she lost it, or

Who knows if one her women, being corrupted

Hath stol’n it from her?

Posthumus

Very true;

And so I hope he came by’t. Back my ring

Render to me some corporal sign about her,

More evident than this; for this was stol’n

Iachimo

By Jupiter, I had it from her arm!

Posthumus

Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears

‘Tis true- nay, keep the ring, ‘tis true. I am sure

She would not lose it. Her attendants are

All sworn and honourable- they induc’d to steal it!

And by a stranger! No, he hath enjoy’d her

The cognizance of her incontinency

Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly

There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell

Divide themselves between you!

Philario

Sir, be patient;

This is not strong enough to be believ’d

Of one persuaded well of

Posthumus

Never talk on’t;

She hath been colted by him

Iachimo

If you seek

For further satisfying, under her breast-

Worthy the pressing- lies a mole, right proud

Of that most delicate lodging. By my life,

I kiss’d it; and it gave me present hunger

To feed again, though full. You do remember

This stain upon her?

Posthumus

Ay, and it doth confirm

Another stain, as big as hell can hold,

Were there no more but it

Iachimo

Will you hear more?

Posthumus

Spare your arithmetic; never count the turns

Once, and a million!

Iachimo

I’ll be sworn-

Posthumus

No swearing

If you will swear you have not done’t, you lie;

And I will kill thee if thou dost deny

Thou’st made me cuckold

Iachimo

I’ll deny nothing

Posthumus

O that I had her here to tear her limb-meal!

I will go there and do’t, i’ th’ court, before

Her father. I’ll do something-

Exit

Philario

Quite besides

The government of patience! You have won

Let’s follow him and pervert the present wrath

He hath against himself

Iachimo

With all my heart

Exeunt

Scene V

Rome. Another room in Philario’s house

Enter Posthumus

Posthumus

Is there no way for men to be, but women

Must be half-workers? We are all bastards,

And that most venerable man which I

Did call my father was I know not where

When I was stamp’d. Some coiner with his tools

Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seem’d

The Dian of that time. So doth my wife

The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance!

Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain’d,

And pray’d me oft forbearance; did it with

A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on’t

Might well have warm’d old Saturn; that I thought her

As chaste as unsunn’d snow. O, all the devils!

This yellow Iachimo in an hour- was’t not?

Or less!- at first? Perchance he spoke not, but,

Like a full-acorn’d boar, a German one,

Cried ‘O!’ and mounted; found no opposition

But what he look’d for should oppose and she

Should from encounter guard. Could I find out

The woman’s part in me! For there’s no motion

That tends to vice in man but I affirm

It is the woman’s part. Be it lying, note it,

The woman’s; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers;

Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers;

Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain,

Nice longing, slanders, mutability,

All faults that man may name, nay, that hell knows,

Why, hers, in part or all; but rather all;

For even to vice

They are not constant, but are changing still

One vice but of a minute old for one

Not half so old as that. I’ll write against them,

Detest them, curse them. Yet ‘tis greater skill

In a true hate to pray they have their will:

The very devils cannot plague them better.

Exit

Act III

Scene I

Britain. A hall in Cymbeline’s palace

Enter in state, Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, and Lords at one door, and at another Caius Lucius and attendants

Cymbeline

Now say, what would Augustus Caesar with us?

Lucius

When Julius Caesar- whose remembrance yet

Lives in men’s eyes, and will to ears and tongues

Be theme and hearing ever- was in this Britain,

And conquer’d it, Cassibelan, thine uncle,

Famous in Caesar’s praises no whit less

Than in his feats deserving it, for him

And his succession granted Rome a tribute,

Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately

Is left untender’d

Queen

And, to kill the marvel,

Shall be so ever

Cloten

There be many Caesars

Ere such another Julius. Britain is

A world by itself, and we will nothing pay

For wearing our own noses

Queen

That opportunity,

Which then they had to take from ‘s, to resume

We have again. Remember, sir, my liege,

The kings your ancestors, together with

The natural bravery of your isle, which stands

As Neptune’s park, ribb’d and pal’d in

With rocks unscalable and roaring waters,

With sands that will not bear your enemies’ boats

But suck them up to th’ top-mast. A kind of conquest

Caesar made here; but made not here his brag

Of ‘came, and saw, and overcame.’ With shame-

The first that ever touch’d him- he was carried

From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping-

Poor ignorant baubles!- on our terrible seas,

Like egg-shells mov’d upon their surges, crack’d

As easily ‘gainst our rocks; for joy whereof

The fam’d Cassibelan, who was once at point-

O, giglot fortune!- to master Caesar’s sword,

Made Lud’s Town with rejoicing fires bright

And Britons strut with courage

Cloten

Come, there’s no more tribute to be paid. Our kingdom is

stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no

moe such Caesars. Other of them may have crook’d noses; but to

owe such straight arms, none

Cymbeline

Son, let your mother end

Cloten

We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan

I do not say I am one; but I have a hand. Why tribute? Why should

we pay tribute? If Caesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket,

or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light;

else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now

Cymbeline

You must know,

Till the injurious Romans did extort

This tribute from us, we were free. Caesar’s ambition-

Which swell’d so much that it did almost stretch

The sides o’ th’ world- against all colour here

Did put the yoke upon’s; which to shake of

Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon

Ourselves to be

Cloten

We do

Cymbeline

Say then to Caesar,

Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which

Ordain’d our laws- whose use the sword of Caesar

Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise

Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed,

Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made our laws,

Who was the first of Britain which did put

His brows within a golden crown, and call’d

Himself a king

Lucius

I am sorry, Cymbeline,

That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar-

Caesar, that hath moe kings his servants than

Thyself domestic officers- thine enemy

Receive it from me, then: war and confusion

In Caesar’s name pronounce I ‘gainst thee; look

For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied,

I thank thee for myself

Cymbeline

Thou art welcome, Caius

Thy Caesar knighted me; my youth I spent

Much under him; of him I gather’d honour,

Which he to seek of me again, perforce,

Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect

That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for

Their liberties are now in arms, a precedent

Which not to read would show the Britons cold;

So Caesar shall not find them

Lucius

Let proof speak

Cloten

His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or

two, or longer. If you seek us afterwards in other terms, you

shall find us in our salt-water girdle. If you beat us out of it,

it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare

the better for you; and there’s an end

Lucius

So, sir

Cymbeline

I know your master’s pleasure, and he mine;

All the remain is, welcome

Exeunt

Scene II

Britain. Another room in Cymbeline’s palace

Enter Pisanio reading of a letter

Pisanio

How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not

What monsters her accuse? Leonatus!

O master, what a strange infection

Is fall’n into thy ear! What false Italian-

As poisonous-tongu’d as handed- hath prevail’d

On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No

She’s punish’d for her truth, and undergoes,

More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults

As would take in some virtue. O my master!

Thy mind to her is now as low as were

Thy fortunes. How? that I should murder her?

Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I

Have made to thy command? I, her? Her blood?

If it be so to do good service, never

Let me be counted serviceable. How look I

That I should seem to lack humanity

So much as this fact comes to? [Reads] ‘Do’t. The letter

That I have sent her, by her own command

Shall give thee opportunity.’ O damn’d paper,

Black as the ink that’s on thee! Senseless bauble,

Art thou a fedary for this act, and look’st

So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes

Enter Imogen

I am ignorant in what I am commanded

Imogen

How now, Pisanio!

Pisanio

Madam, here is a letter from my lord

Imogen

Who? thy lord? That is my lord- Leonatus?

O, learn’d indeed were that astronomer

That knew the stars as I his characters-

He’d lay the future open. You good gods,

Let what is here contain’d relish of love,

Of my lord’s health, of his content; yet not

That we two are asunder- let that grieve him!

Some griefs are med’cinable; that is one of them,

For it doth physic love- of his content,

All but in that. Good wax, thy leave. Blest be

You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers

And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike;

Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet

You clasp young Cupid’s tables. Good news, gods!

[Reads]

‘Justice and your father’s wrath, should he take me in his

dominion, could not be so cruel to me as you, O the dearest of

creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I

am in Cambria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will out of

this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness that

remains loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love

Leonatus Posthumus.’

O for a horse with wings! Hear’st thou, Pisanio?

He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me

How far ‘tis thither. If one of mean affairs

May plod it in a week, why may not I

Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio-

Who long’st like me to see thy lord, who long’st-

O, let me ‘bate!- but not like me, yet long’st,

But in a fainter kind- O, not like me,

For mine’s beyond beyond!-say, and speak thick-

Love’s counsellor should fill the bores of hearing

To th’ smothering of the sense- how far it is

To this same blessed Milford. And by th’ way

Tell me how Wales was made so happy as

T’ inherit such a haven. But first of all,

How we may steal from hence; and for the gap

That we shall make in time from our hence-going

And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence

Why should excuse be born or ere begot?

We’ll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak,

How many score of miles may we well ride

‘Twixt hour and hour?

Pisanio

One score ‘twixt sun and sun,

Madam, ‘s enough for you, and too much too

Imogen

Why, one that rode to’s execution, man,

Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding wagers

Where horses have been nimbler than the sands

That run i’ th’ clock’s behalf. But this is fool’ry

Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say

She’ll home to her father; and provide me presently

A riding suit, no costlier than would fit

A franklin’s huswife

Pisanio

Madam, you’re best consider

Imogen

I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here,

Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them

That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee;

Do as I bid thee. There’s no more to say;

Accessible is none but Milford way

Exeunt

Scene III

Wales. A mountainous country with a cave

Enter from the cave Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus

Belarius

A goodly day not to keep house with such

Whose roof’s as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate

Instructs you how t’ adore the heavens, and bows you

To a morning’s holy office. The gates of monarchs

Are arch’d so high that giants may jet through

And keep their impious turbans on without

Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven!

We house i’ th’ rock, yet use thee not so hardly

As prouder livers do

Guiderius

Hail, heaven!

Arviragus

Hail, heaven!

Belarius

Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill,

Your legs are young; I’ll tread these flats. Consider,

When you above perceive me like a crow,

That it is place which lessens and sets off;

And you may then revolve what tales I have told you

Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war

This service is not service so being done,

But being so allow’d. To apprehend thus

Draws us a profit from all things we see,

And often to our comfort shall we find

The sharded beetle in a safer hold

Than is the full-wing’d eagle. O, this life

Is nobler than attending for a check,

Richer than doing nothing for a bribe,

Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk:

Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine,

Yet keeps his book uncross’d. No life to ours!

Guiderius

Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg’d,

Have never wing’d from view o’ th’ nest, nor know not

What air’s from home. Haply this life is best,

If quiet life be best; sweeter to you

That have a sharper known; well corresponding

With your stiff age. But unto us it is

A cell of ignorance, travelling abed,

A prison for a debtor that not dares

To stride a limit

Arviragus

What should we speak of

When we are old as you? When we shall hear

The rain and wind beat dark December, how,

In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse

The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing;

We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey,

Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat

Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage

We make a choir, as doth the prison’d bird,

And sing our bondage freely

Belarius

How you speak!

Did you but know the city’s usuries,

And felt them knowingly- the art o’ th’ court,

As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb

Is certain falling, or so slipp’ry that

The fear’s as bad as falling; the toil o’ th’ war,

A pain that only seems to seek out danger

I’ th’name of fame and honour, which dies i’ th’search,

And hath as oft a sland’rous epitaph

As record of fair act; nay, many times,

Doth ill deserve by doing well; what’s worse-

Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story

The world may read in me; my body’s mark’d

With Roman swords, and my report was once

first with the best of note. Cymbeline lov’d me;

And when a soldier was the theme, my name

Was not far off. Then was I as a tree

Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night

A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,

Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,

And left me bare to weather

Guiderius

Uncertain favour!

Belarius

My fault being nothing- as I have told you oft-

But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail’d

Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline

I was confederate with the Romans. So

Follow’d my banishment, and this twenty years

This rock and these demesnes have been my world,

Where I have liv’d at honest freedom, paid

More pious debts to heaven than in all

The fore-end of my time. But up to th’ mountains!

This is not hunters’ language. He that strikes

The venison first shall be the lord o’ th’ feast;

To him the other two shall minister;

And we will fear no poison, which attends

In place of greater state. I’ll meet you in the valleys

Exeunt Guiderius and Arviragus

How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!

These boys know little they are sons to th’ King,

Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive

They think they are mine; and though train’d up thus meanly

I’ th’ cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit

The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them

In simple and low things to prince it much

Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,

The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who

The King his father call’d Guiderius- Jove!

When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell

The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out

Into my story; say ‘Thus mine enemy fell,

And thus I set my foot on’s neck’; even then

The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,

Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture

That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,

Once Arviragus, in as like a figure

Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more

His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous’d!

O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows

Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon,

At three and two years old, I stole these babes,

Thinking to bar thee of succession as

Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile,

Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother,

And every day do honour to her grave

Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call’d,

They take for natural father. The game is up.

Exit

Scene IV

Wales, near Milford Haven

Enter Pisanio and Imogen

Imogen

Thou told’st me, when we came from horse, the place

Was near at hand. Ne’er long’d my mother so

To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man!

Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind

That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh

From th’ inward of thee? One but painted thus

Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d

Beyond self-explication. Put thyself

Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness

Vanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter?

Why tender’st thou that paper to me with

A look untender! If’t be summer news,

Smile to’t before; if winterly, thou need’st

But keep that count’nance still. My husband’s hand?

That drug-damn’d Italy hath out-craftied him,

And he’s at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue

May take off some extremity, which to read

Would be even mortal to me

Pisanio

Please you read,

And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing

The most disdain’d of fortune

Imogen

[Reads] ‘Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play’d the strumpet in

my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not

out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as

certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act

for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let

thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity

at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where, if

thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art

the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.’

Pisanio

What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper

Hath cut her throat already. No, ‘tis slander,

Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue

Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath

Rides on the posting winds and doth belie

All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states,

Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave,

This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?

Imogen

False to his bed? What is it to be false?

To lie in watch there, and to think on him?

To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature,

To break it with a fearful dream of him,

And cry myself awake? That’s false to’s bed,

Is it?

Pisanio

Alas, good lady!

Imogen

I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo,

Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;

Thou then look’dst like a villain; now, methinks,

Thy favour’s good enough. Some jay of Italy,

Whose mother was her painting, hath betray’d him

Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion,

And for I am richer than to hang by th’ walls

I must be ripp’d. To pieces with me! O,

Men’s vows are women’s traitors! All good seeming,

By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought

Put on for villainy; not born where’t grows,

But worn a bait for ladies

Pisanio

Good madam, hear me

Imogen

True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas,

Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon’s weeping

Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity

From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus,

Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men:

Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur’d

From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest;

Do thou thy master’s bidding; when thou seest him,

A little witness my obedience. Look!

I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit

The innocent mansion of my love, my heart

Fear not; ‘tis empty of all things but grief;

Thy master is not there, who was indeed

The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike

Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause,

But now thou seem’st a coward

Pisanio

Hence, vile instrument!

Thou shalt not damn my hand

Imogen

Why, I must die;

And if I do not by thy hand, thou art

No servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughter

There is a prohibition so divine

That cravens my weak hand. Come, here’s my heart-

Something’s afore’t. Soft, soft! we’ll no defence!-

Obedient as the scabbard. What is here?

The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus

All turn’d to heresy? Away, away,

Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more

Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools

Believe false teachers; though those that are betray’d

Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor

Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus,

That didst set up my disobedience ‘gainst the King

My father, and make me put into contempt the suits

Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find

It is no act of common passage but

A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself

To think, when thou shalt be disedg’d by her

That now thou tirest on, how thy memory

Will then be pang’d by me. Prithee dispatch

The lamp entreats the butcher. Where’s thy knife?

Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding,

When I desire it too

Pisanio

O gracious lady,

Since I receiv’d command to do this busines

I have not slept one wink

Imogen

Do’t, and to bed then

Pisanio

I’ll wake mine eyeballs first

Imogen

Wherefore then

Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus’d

So many miles with a pretence? This place?

Mine action and thine own? our horses’ labour?

The time inviting thee? the perturb’d court,

For my being absent?- whereunto I never

Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far

To be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand,

Th’ elected deer before thee?

Pisanio

But to win time

To lose so bad employment, in the which

I have consider’d of a course. Good lady,

Hear me with patience

Imogen

Talk thy tongue weary- speak

I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear,

Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,

Nor tent to bottom that. But speak

Pisanio

Then, madam,

I thought you would not back again

Imogen

Most like-

Bringing me here to kill me

Pisanio

Not so, neither;

But if I were as wise as honest, then

My purpose would prove well. It cannot be

But that my master is abus’d. Some villain,

Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both

This cursed injury

Imogen

Some Roman courtezan!

Pisanio

No, on my life!

I’ll give but notice you are dead, and send him

Some bloody sign of it, for ‘tis commanded

I should do so. You shall be miss’d at court,

And that will well confirm it

Imogen

Why, good fellow,

What shall I do the while? where bide? how live?

Or in my life what comfort, when I am

Dead to my husband?

Pisanio

If you’ll back to th’ court-

Imogen

No court, no father, nor no more ado

With that harsh, noble, simple nothing-

That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me

As fearful as a siege

Pisanio

If not at court,

Then not in Britain must you bide

Imogen

Where then?

Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,

Are they not but in Britain? I’ th’ world’s volume

Our Britain seems as of it, but not in’t;

In a great pool a swan’s nest. Prithee think

There’s livers out of Britain

Pisanio

I am most glad

You think of other place. Th’ ambassador,

Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven

To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a mind

Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise

That which t’ appear itself must not yet be

But by self-danger, you should tread a course

Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near

The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,

That though his actions were not visible, yet

Report should render him hourly to your ear

As truly as he moves

Imogen

O! for such means,

Though peril to my modesty, not death on’t,

I would adventure

Pisanio

Well then, here’s the point:

You must forget to be a woman; change

Command into obedience; fear and niceness-

The handmaids of all women, or, more truly,

Woman it pretty self- into a waggish courage;

Ready in gibes, quick-answer’d, saucy, and

As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must

Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,

Exposing it- but, O, the harder heart!

Alack, no remedy!- to the greedy touch

Of common-kissing Titan, and forget

Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein

You made great Juno angry

Imogen

Nay, be brief;

I see into thy end, and am almost

A man already

Pisanio

First, make yourself but like one

Fore-thinking this, I have already fit-

‘Tis in my cloak-bag- doublet, hat, hose, all

That answer to them. Would you, in their serving,

And with what imitation you can borrow

From youth of such a season, fore noble Lucius

Present yourself, desire his service, tell him

Wherein you’re happy- which will make him know

If that his head have ear in music; doubtless

With joy he will embrace you; for he’s honourable,

And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad-

You have me, rich; and I will never fail

Beginning nor supplyment

Imogen

Thou art all the comfort

The gods will diet me with. Prithee away!

There’s more to be consider’d; but we’ll even

All that good time will give us. This attempt

I am soldier to, and will abide it with

A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee

Pisanio

Well, madam, we must take a short farewell,

Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected of

Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress,

Here is a box; I had it from the Queen

What’s in’t is precious. If you are sick at sea

Or stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of this

Will drive away distemper. To some shade,

And fit you to your manhood. May the gods

Direct you to the best!

Imogen

Amen. I thank thee.

Exeunt severally

Scene V

Britain. Cymbeline’s palace

Enter Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, Lucius, and Lords

Cymbeline

Thus far; and so farewell

Lucius

Thanks, royal sir

My emperor hath wrote; I must from hence,

And am right sorry that I must report ye

My master’s enemy

Cymbeline

Our subjects, sir,

Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself

To show less sovereignty than they, must needs

Appear unkinglike

Lucius

So, sir. I desire of you

A conduct overland to Milford Haven

Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you!

Cymbeline

My lords, you are appointed for that office;

The due of honour in no point omit

So farewell, noble Lucius

Lucius

Your hand, my lord

Cloten

Receive it friendly; but from this time forth

I wear it as your enemy

Lucius

Sir, the event

Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well

Cymbeline

Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,

Till he have cross’d the Severn. Happiness!

Exeunt Lucius and Lords

Queen

He goes hence frowning; but it honours us

That we have given him cause

Cloten

‘Tis all the better;

Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it

Cymbeline

Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor

How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely

Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness

The pow’rs that he already hath in Gallia

Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves

His war for Britain

Queen

‘Tis not sleepy business,

But must be look’d to speedily and strongly

Cymbeline

Our expectation that it would be thus

Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,

Where is our daughter? She hath not appear’d

Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender’d

The duty of the day. She looks us like

A thing more made of malice than of duty;

We have noted it. Call her before us, for

We have been too slight in sufferance.Exit a Messenger

Queen

Royal sir,

Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir’d

Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,

‘Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty,

Forbear sharp speeches to her; she’s a lady

So tender of rebukes that words are strokes,

And strokes death to her

Re-enter Messenger

Cymbeline

Where is she, sir? How

Can her contempt be answer’d?

Messenger

Please you, sir,

Her chambers are all lock’d, and there’s no answer

That will be given to th’ loud of noise we make

Queen

My lord, when last I went to visit her,

She pray’d me to excuse her keeping close;

Whereto constrain’d by her infirmity

She should that duty leave unpaid to you

Which daily she was bound to proffer. This

She wish’d me to make known; but our great court

Made me to blame in memory

Cymbeline

Her doors lock’d?

Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear

Prove false!

Exit

Queen

Son, I say, follow the King

Cloten

That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant,

I have not seen these two days

Queen

Go, look after

Exit Cloten

Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus!

He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absence

Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes

It is a thing most precious. But for her,

Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seiz’d her;

Or, wing’d with fervour of her love, she’s flown

To her desir’d Posthumus. Gone she is

To death or to dishonour, and my end

Can make good use of either. She being down,

I have the placing of the British crown

Re-enter Cloten

How now, my son?

Cloten

‘Tis certain she is fled

Go in and cheer the King. He rages; none

Dare come about him

Queen

All the better. May

This night forestall him of the coming day!Exit

Cloten

I love and hate her; for she’s fair and royal,

And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite

Than lady, ladies, woman. From every one

The best she hath, and she, of all compounded,

Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but

Disdaining me and throwing favours on

The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment

That what’s else rare is chok’d; and in that point

I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed,

To be reveng’d upon her. For when fools

Shall-

Enter Pisanio

Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah?

Come hither. Ah, you precious pander! Villain,

Where is thy lady? In a word, or else

Thou art straightway with the fiends

Pisanio

O good my lord!

Cloten

Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter-

I will not ask again. Close villain,

I’ll have this secret from thy heart, or rip

Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus?

From whose so many weights of baseness cannot

A dram of worth be drawn

Pisanio

Alas, my lord,

How can she be with him? When was she miss’d?

He is in Rome

Cloten

Where is she, sir? Come nearer

No farther halting! Satisfy me home

What is become of her

Pisanio

O my all-worthy lord!

Cloten

All-worthy villain!

Discover where thy mistress is at once,

At the next word. No more of ‘worthy lord’!

Speak, or thy silence on the instant is

Thy condemnation and thy death

Pisanio

Then, sir,

This paper is the history of my knowledge

Touching her flight.

[Presenting a letter]

Cloten

Let’s see’t. I will pursue her

Even to Augustus’ throne

Pisanio

[Aside] Or this or perish

She’s far enough; and what he learns by this

May prove his travel, not her danger

Cloten

Humh!

Pisanio

[Aside] I’ll write to my lord she’s dead. O Imogen,

Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again!

Cloten

Sirrah, is this letter true?

Pisanio

Sir, as I think

Cloten

It is Posthumus’ hand; I know’t. Sirrah, if thou wouldst

not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those

employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a

serious industry- that is, what villainy soe’er I bid thee do, to

perform it directly and truly- I would think thee an honest man;

thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice

for thy preferment

Pisanio

Well, my good lord

Cloten

Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou

hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou

canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower

of mine. Wilt thou serve me?

Pisanio

Sir, I will

Cloten

Give me thy hand; here’s my purse. Hast any of thy late

master’s garments in thy possession?

Pisanio

I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when

he took leave of my lady and mistress

Cloten

The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let

it be thy first service; go

Pisanio

I shall, my lord

Exit

Cloten

Meet thee at Milford Haven! I forgot to ask him one thing;

I’ll remember’t anon. Even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I

kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a

time- the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart- that she

held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble

and natural person, together with the adornment of my qualities

With that suit upon my back will I ravish her; first kill him,

and in her eyes. There shall she see my valour, which will then

be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of

insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined-

which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that

she so prais’d- to the court I’ll knock her back, foot her home

again. She hath despis’d me rejoicingly, and I’ll be merry in my

revenge

Re-enter Pisanio, with the clothes

Be those the garments?

Pisanio

Ay, my noble lord

Cloten

How long is’t since she went to Milford Haven?

Pisanio

She can scarce be there yet

Cloten

Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing

that I have commanded thee. The third is that thou wilt be a

voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous and true, preferment

shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford, would

I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true.Exit

Pisanio

Thou bid’st me to my loss; for true to thee

Were to prove false, which I will never be,

To him that is most true. To Milford go,

And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow,

You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool’s speed

Be cross’d with slowness! Labour be his meed!

Exit

Scene VI

Wales. Before the cave of Belarius

Enter Imogen alone, in boy’s clothes

Imogen

I see a man’s life is a tedious one

I have tir’d myself, and for two nights together

Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick

But that my resolution helps me. Milford,

When from the mountain-top Pisanio show’d thee,

Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think

Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean,

Where they should be reliev’d. Two beggars told me

I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie,

That have afflictions on them, knowing ‘tis

A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder,

When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness

Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood

Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord!

Thou art one o’ th’ false ones. Now I think on thee

My hunger’s gone; but even before, I was

At point to sink for food. But what is this?

Here is a path to’t; ‘tis some savage hold

I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine,

Ere clean it o’erthrow nature, makes it valiant

Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever

Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who’s here?

If anything that’s civil, speak; if savage,

Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I’ll enter

Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy

But fear the sword, like me, he’ll scarcely look on’t

Such a foe, good heavens!Exit into the cave

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus

Belarius

You, Polydore, have prov’d best woodman and

Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I

Will play the cook and servant; ‘tis our match

The sweat of industry would dry and die

But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs

Will make what’s homely savoury; weariness

Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth

Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here,

Poor house, that keep’st thyself!

Guiderius

I am thoroughly weary

Arviragus

I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite

Guiderius

There is cold meat i’ th’ cave; we’ll browse on that

Whilst what we have kill’d be cook’d

Belarius

[Looking into the cave] Stay, come not in

But that it eats our victuals, I should think

Here were a fairy

Guiderius

What’s the matter, sir?

Belarius

. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not,

An earthly paragon! Behold divineness

No elder than a boy!

Re-enter Imogen

Imogen

Good masters, harm me not

Before I enter’d here I call’d, and thought

To have begg’d or bought what I have took. Good troth,

I have stol’n nought; nor would not though I had found

Gold strew’d i’ th’ floor. Here’s money for my meat

I would have left it on the board, so soon

As I had made my meal, and parted

With pray’rs for the provider

Guiderius

Money, youth?

Arviragus

All gold and silver rather turn to dirt,

As ‘tis no better reckon’d but of those

Who worship dirty gods

Imogen

I see you’re angry

Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should

Have died had I not made it

Belarius

Whither bound?

Imogen

To Milford Haven

Belarius

What’s your name?

Imogen

Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who

Is bound for Italy; he embark’d at Milford;

To whom being going, almost spent with hunger,

I am fall’n in this offence

Belarius

Prithee, fair youth,

Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds

By this rude place we live in. Well encounter’d!

‘Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer

Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it

Boys, bid him welcome

Guiderius

Were you a woman, youth,

I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty

I bid for you as I’d buy

Arviragus

I’ll make’t my comfort

He is a man. I’ll love him as my brother;

And such a welcome as I’d give to him

After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome!

Be sprightly, for you fall ‘mongst friends

Imogen

‘Mongst friends,

If brothers [Aside] Would it had been so that they

Had been my father’s sons! Then had my prize

Been less, and so more equal ballasting

To thee, Posthumus

Belarius

He wrings at some distress

Guiderius

Would I could free’t!

Arviragus

Or I, whate’er it be,

What pain it cost, what danger! Gods!

Belarius

[Whispering] Hark, boys

Imogen

[Aside] Great men,

That had a court no bigger than this cave,

That did attend themselves, and had the virtue

Which their own conscience seal’d them, laying by

That nothing-gift of differing multitudes,

Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods!

I’d change my sex to be companion with them,

Since Leonatus’ false

Belarius

It shall be so

Boys, we’ll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in

Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp’d,

We’ll mannerly demand thee of thy story,

So far as thou wilt speak it

Guiderius

Pray draw near

Arviragus

The night to th’ owl and morn to th’ lark less welcome

Imogen

Thanks, sir

Arviragus

I pray draw near.

Exeunt

Scene VII

Rome. A public place

Enter two Roman Senators and Tribunes

First Senator

This is the tenour of the Emperor’s writ:

That since the common men are now in action

‘Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians,

And that the legions now in Gallia are

Full weak to undertake our wars against

The fall’n-off Britons, that we do incite

The gentry to this business. He creates

Lucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes,

For this immediate levy, he commands

His absolute commission. Long live Caesar!

Tribune

Is Lucius general of the forces?

Second Senator

Ay

Tribune

Remaining now in Gallia?

First Senator

With those legions

Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy

Must be supplyant. The words of your commission

Will tie you to the numbers and the time

Of their dispatch

Tribune

We will discharge our duty.

Exeunt

Act IV

Scene I

Wales. Near the cave of Belarius

Enter Cloten alone

Cloten

I am near to th’ place where they should meet, if Pisanio

have mapp’d it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should

his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be

fit too? The rather- saving reverence of the word- for ‘tis said

a woman’s fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman

I dare speak it to myself, for it is not vain-glory for a man and

his glass to confer in his own chamber- I mean, the lines of my

body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not

beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time,

above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and

more remarkable in single oppositions. Yet this imperceiverant

thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy

head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this

hour be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces

before her face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father,

who may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my

mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my

commendations. My horse is tied up safe. Out, sword, and to a

sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand. This is the very

description of their meeting-place; and the fellow dares not

deceive me.

Exit

Scene II

Wales. Before the cave of Belarius

Enter, from the cave, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, and Imogen

Belarius

[To Imogen] You are not well. Remain here in the cave;

We’ll come to you after hunting

Arviragus

[To Imogen] Brother, stay here

Are we not brothers?

Imogen

So man and man should be;

But clay and clay differs in dignity,

Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick

Guiderius

Go you to hunting; I’ll abide with him

Imogen

So sick I am not, yet I am not well;

But not so citizen a wanton as

To seem to die ere sick. So please you, leave me;

Stick to your journal course. The breach of custom

Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me

Cannot amend me; society is no comfort

To one not sociable. I am not very sick,

Since I can reason of it. Pray you trust me here

I’ll rob none but myself; and let me die,

Stealing so poorly

Guiderius

I love thee; I have spoke it

How much the quantity, the weight as much

As I do love my father

Belarius

What? how? how?

Arviragus

If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me

In my good brother’s fault. I know not why

I love this youth, and I have heard you say

Love’s reason’s without reason. The bier at door,

And a demand who is’t shall die, I’d say

‘My father, not this youth.’

Belarius

[Aside] O noble strain!

O worthiness of nature! breed of greatness!

Cowards father cowards and base things sire base

Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace

I’m not their father; yet who this should be

Doth miracle itself, lov’d before me.-

‘Tis the ninth hour o’ th’ morn

Arviragus

Brother, farewell

Imogen

I wish ye sport

Arviragus

Your health. [To Belarius] So please you, sir

Imogen

[Aside] These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have

heard!

Our courtiers say all’s savage but at court

Experience, O, thou disprov’st report!

Th’ imperious seas breed monsters; for the dish,

Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish

I am sick still; heart-sick. Pisanio,

I’ll now taste of thy drug.

[Swallows some]

Guiderius

I could not stir him

He said he was gentle, but unfortunate;

Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest

Arviragus

Thus did he answer me; yet said hereafter

I might know more

Belarius

To th’ field, to th’ field!

We’ll leave you for this time. Go in and rest

Arviragus

We’ll not be long away

Belarius

Pray be not sick,

For you must be our huswife

Imogen

Well, or ill,

I am bound to you

Belarius

And shalt be ever.Exit Imogen into the cave

This youth, howe’er distress’d, appears he hath had

Good ancestors

Arviragus

How angel-like he sings!

Guiderius

But his neat cookery! He cut our roots in characters,

And sauc’d our broths as Juno had been sick,

And he her dieter

Arviragus

Nobly he yokes

A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh

Was that it was for not being such a smile;

The smile mocking the sigh that it would fly

From so divine a temple to commix

With winds that sailors rail at

Guiderius

I do note

That grief and patience, rooted in him both,

Mingle their spurs together

Arviragus

Grow patience!

And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine

His perishing root with the increasing vine!

Belarius

It is great morning. Come, away! Who’s there?

Enter Cloten

Cloten

I cannot find those runagates; that villain

Hath mock’d me. I am faint

Belarius

Those runagates?

Means he not us? I partly know him; ‘tis

Cloten, the son o’ th’ Queen. I fear some ambush

I saw him not these many years, and yet

I know ‘tis he. We are held as outlaws. Hence!

Guiderius

He is but one; you and my brother search

What companies are near. Pray you away;

Let me alone with him.Exeunt Belarius and Arviragus

Cloten

Soft! What are you

That fly me thus? Some villain mountaineers?

I have heard of such. What slave art thou?

Guiderius

A thing

More slavish did I ne’er than answering

‘A slave’ without a knock

Cloten

Thou art a robber,

A law-breaker, a villain. Yield thee, thief

Guiderius

To who? To thee? What art thou? Have not I

An arm as big as thine, a heart as big?

Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not

My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art;

Why I should yield to thee

Cloten

Thou villain base,

Know’st me not by my clothes?

Guiderius

No, nor thy tailor, rascal,

Who is thy grandfather; he made those clothes,

Which, as it seems, make thee

Cloten

Thou precious varlet,

My tailor made them not

Guiderius

Hence, then, and thank

The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool;

I am loath to beat thee

Cloten

Thou injurious thief,

Hear but my name, and tremble

Guiderius

What’s thy name?

Cloten

Cloten, thou villain

Guiderius

Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name,

I cannot tremble at it. Were it toad, or adder, spider,

‘Twould move me sooner

Cloten

To thy further fear,

Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know

I am son to th’ Queen

Guiderius

I’m sorry for’t; not seeming

So worthy as thy birth

Cloten

Art not afeard?

Guiderius

Those that I reverence, those I fear- the wise:

At fools I laugh, not fear them

Cloten

Die the death

When I have slain thee with my proper hand,

I’ll follow those that even now fled hence,

And on the gates of Lud’s Town set your heads

Yield, rustic mountaineer

Exeunt, fighting

Re-enter Belarius and Arviragus

Belarius

No company’s abroad

Arviragus

None in the world; you did mistake him, sure

Belarius

I cannot tell; long is it since I saw him,

But time hath nothing blurr’d those lines of favour

Which then he wore; the snatches in his voice,

And burst of speaking, were as his. I am absolute

‘Twas very Cloten

Arviragus

In this place we left them

I wish my brother make good time with him,

You say he is so fell

Belarius

Being scarce made up,

I mean to man, he had not apprehension

Or roaring terrors; for defect of judgment

Is oft the cease of fear

Re-enter Guiderius with Cloten’s head

But, see, thy brother

Guiderius

This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse;

There was no money in’t. Not Hercules

Could have knock’d out his brains, for he had none;

Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne

My head as I do his

Belarius

What hast thou done?

Guiderius

I am perfect what: cut off one Cloten’s head,

Son to the Queen, after his own report;

Who call’d me traitor, mountaineer, and swore

With his own single hand he’d take us in,

Displace our heads where- thank the gods!- they grow,

And set them on Lud’s Town

Belarius

We are all undone

Guiderius

Why, worthy father, what have we to lose

But that he swore to take, our lives? The law

Protects not us; then why should we be tender

To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us,

Play judge and executioner all himself,

For we do fear the law? What company

Discover you abroad?

Belarius

No single soul

Can we set eye on, but in an safe reason

He must have some attendants. Though his humour

Was nothing but mutation- ay, and that

From one bad thing to worse- not frenzy, not

Absolute madness could so far have rav’d,

To bring him here alone. Although perhaps

It may be heard at court that such as we

Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time

May make some stronger head- the which he hearing,

As it is like him, might break out and swear

He’d fetch us in; yet is’t not probable

To come alone, either he so undertaking

Or they so suffering. Then on good ground we fear,

If we do fear this body hath a tail

More perilous than the head

Arviragus

Let ordinance

Come as the gods foresay it. Howsoe’er,

My brother hath done well

Belarius

I had no mind

To hunt this day; the boy Fidele’s sickness

Did make my way long forth

Guiderius

With his own sword,

Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta’en

His head from him. I’ll throw’t into the creek

Behind our rock, and let it to the sea

And tell the fishes he’s the Queen’s son, Cloten

That’s all I reck

Exit

Belarius

I fear’twill be reveng’d

Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done’t! though valour

Becomes thee well enough

Arviragus

Would I had done’t,

So the revenge alone pursu’d me! Polydore,

I love thee brotherly, but envy much

Thou hast robb’d me of this deed. I would revenges,

That possible strength might meet, would seek us through,

And put us to our answer

Belarius

Well, ‘tis done

We’ll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger

Where there’s no profit. I prithee to our rock

You and Fidele play the cooks; I’ll stay

Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him

To dinner presently

Arviragus

Poor sick Fidele!

I’ll willingly to him; to gain his colour

I’d let a parish of such Cloten’s blood,

And praise myself for charity

Exit

Belarius

O thou goddess,

Thou divine Nature, thou thyself thou blazon’st

In these two princely boys! They are as gentle

As zephyrs blowing below the violet,

Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough,

Their royal blood enchaf’d, as the rud’st wind

That by the top doth take the mountain pine

And make him stoop to th’ vale. ‘Tis wonder

That an invisible instinct should frame them

To royalty unlearn’d, honour untaught,

Civility not seen from other, valour

That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop

As if it had been sow’d. Yet still it’s strange

What Cloten’s being here to us portends,

Or what his death will bring us

Re-enter Guiderius

Guiderius

Where’s my brother?

I have sent Cloten’s clotpoll down the stream,

In embassy to his mother; his body’s hostage

For his return.

[Solemn music]

Belarius

My ingenious instrument!

Hark, Polydore, it sounds. But what occasion

Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark!

Guiderius

Is he at home?

Belarius

He went hence even now

Guiderius

What does he mean? Since death of my dear’st mother

It did not speak before. All solemn things

Should answer solemn accidents. The matter?

Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys

Is jollity for apes and grief for boys

Is Cadwal mad?

Re-enter Arviragus, with Imogen as dead, bearing her in his arms

Belarius

Look, here he comes,

And brings the dire occasion in his arms

Of what we blame him for!

Arviragus

The bird is dead

That we have made so much on. I had rather

Have skipp’d from sixteen years of age to sixty,

To have turn’d my leaping time into a crutch,

Than have seen this

Guiderius

O sweetest, fairest lily!

My brother wears thee not the one half so well

As when thou grew’st thyself

Belarius

O melancholy!

Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find

The ooze to show what coast thy sluggish crare

Might’st easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing!

Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I,

Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy

How found you him?

Arviragus

Stark, as you see;

Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber,

Not as death’s dart, being laugh’d at; his right cheek

Reposing on a cushion

Guiderius

Where?

Arviragus

O’ th’ floor;

His arms thus leagu’d. I thought he slept, and put

My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness

Answer’d my steps too loud

Guiderius

Why, he but sleeps

If he be gone he’ll make his grave a bed;

With female fairies will his tomb be haunted,

And worms will not come to thee

Arviragus

With fairest flowers,

Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele,

I’ll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack

The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose; nor

The azur’d hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor

The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,

Out-sweet’ned not thy breath. The ruddock would,

With charitable bill- O bill, sore shaming

Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie

Without a monument!- bring thee all this;

Yea, and furr’d moss besides, when flow’rs are none,

To winter-ground thy corse-

Guiderius

Prithee have done,

And do not play in wench-like words with that

Which is so serious. Let us bury him,

And not protract with admiration what

Is now due debt. To th’ grave

Arviragus

Say, where shall’s lay him?

Guiderius

By good Euriphile, our mother

Arviragus

Be’t so;

And let us, Polydore, though now our voices

Have got the mannish crack, sing him to th’ ground,

As once to our mother; use like note and words,

Save that Euriphile must be Fidele

Guiderius

Cadwal,

I cannot sing. I’ll weep, and word it with thee;

For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse

Than priests and fanes that lie

Arviragus

We’ll speak it, then

Belarius

Great griefs, I see, med’cine the less, for Cloten

Is quite forgot. He was a queen’s son, boys;

And though he came our enemy, remember

He was paid for that. Though mean and mighty rotting

Together have one dust, yet reverence-

That angel of the world- doth make distinction

Of place ‘tween high and low. Our foe was princely;

And though you took his life, as being our foe,

Yet bury him as a prince

Guiderius

Pray you fetch him hither

Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’,

When neither are alive

Arviragus

If you’ll go fetch him,

We’ll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin

Exit Belarius

Guiderius

Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to th’ East;

My father hath a reason for’t

Arviragus

‘Tis true

Guiderius

Come on, then, and remove him

Arviragus

So. Begin

Song

Guiderius

Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun

Nor the furious winter’s rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust

Arviragus

Fear no more the frown o’ th’ great;

Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke

Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak

The sceptre, learning, physic, must

All follow this and come to dust

Guiderius

Fear no more the lightning flash,

Arviragus

Nor th’ all-dreaded thunder-stone;

Guiderius

Fear not slander, censure rash;

Arviragus

Thou hast finish’d joy and moan

Both

All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee and come to dust

Guiderius

No exorciser harm thee!

Arviragus

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

Guiderius

Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

Arviragus

Nothing ill come near thee!

Both

Quiet consummation have,

And renowned be thy grave!

Re-enter Belarius with the body of Cloten

Guiderius

We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him down

Belarius

Here’s a few flowers; but ‘bout midnight, more

The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ th’ night

Are strewings fit’st for graves. Upon their faces

You were as flow’rs, now wither’d. Even so

These herblets shall which we upon you strew

Come on, away. Apart upon our knees

The ground that gave them first has them again

Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain

Exeunt all but Imogen

Imogen

[Awaking] Yes, sir, to Milford Haven. Which is the way?

I thank you. By yond bush? Pray, how far thither?

‘Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet?

I have gone all night. Faith, I’ll lie down and sleep

But, soft! no bedfellow. O gods and goddesses!

[Seeing the body]

These flow’rs are like the pleasures of the world;

This bloody man, the care on’t. I hope I dream;

For so I thought I was a cave-keeper,

And cook to honest creatures. But ‘tis not so;

‘Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing,

Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes

Are sometimes, like our judgments, blind. Good faith,

I tremble still with fear; but if there be

Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity

As a wren’s eye, fear’d gods, a part of it!

The dream’s here still. Even when I wake it is

Without me, as within me; not imagin’d, felt

A headless man? The garments of Posthumus?

I know the shape of’s leg; this is his hand,

His foot Mercurial, his Martial thigh,

The brawns of Hercules; but his Jovial face-

Murder in heaven! How! ‘Tis gone. Pisanio,

All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,

And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou,

Conspir’d with that irregulous devil, Cloten,

Hath here cut off my lord. To write and read

Be henceforth treacherous! Damn’d Pisanio

Hath with his forged letters- damn’d Pisanio-

From this most bravest vessel of the world

Struck the main-top. O Posthumus! alas,

Where is thy head? Where’s that? Ay me! where’s that?

Pisanio might have kill’d thee at the heart,

And left this head on. How should this be? Pisanio?

‘Tis he and Cloten; malice and lucre in them

Have laid this woe here. O, ‘tis pregnant, pregnant!

The drug he gave me, which he said was precious

And cordial to me, have I not found it

Murd’rous to th’ senses? That confirms it home

This is Pisanio’s deed, and Cloten. O!

Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood,

That we the horrider may seem to those

Which chance to find us. O, my lord, my lord!

[Falls fainting on the body]

Enter Lucius, Captains, and a Soothsayer

Captain

To them the legions garrison’d in Gallia,

After your will, have cross’d the sea, attending

You here at Milford Haven; with your ships,

They are in readiness

Lucius

But what from Rome?

Captain

The Senate hath stirr’d up the confiners

And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits,

That promise noble service; and they come

Under the conduct of bold Iachimo,

Sienna’s brother

Lucius

When expect you them?

Captain

With the next benefit o’ th’ wind

Lucius

This forwardness

Makes our hopes fair. Command our present numbers

Be muster’d; bid the captains look to’t. Now, sir,

What have you dream’d of late of this war’s purpose?

Soothsayer

Last night the very gods show’d me a vision-

I fast and pray’d for their intelligence- thus:

I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d

From the spongy south to this part of the west,

There vanish’d in the sunbeams; which portends,

Unless my sins abuse my divination,

Success to th’ Roman host

Lucius

Dream often so,

And never false. Soft, ho! what trunk is here

Without his top? The ruin speaks that sometime

It was a worthy building. How? a page?

Or dead or sleeping on him? But dead, rather;

For nature doth abhor to make his bed

With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead

Let’s see the boy’s face

Captain

He’s alive, my lord

Lucius

He’ll then instruct us of this body. Young one,

Inform us of thy fortunes; for it seems

They crave to be demanded. Who is this

Thou mak’st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he

That, otherwise than noble nature did,

Hath alter’d that good picture? What’s thy interest

In this sad wreck? How came’t? Who is’t? What art thou?

Imogen

I am nothing; or if not,

Nothing to be were better. This was my master,

A very valiant Briton and a good,

That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas!

There is no more such masters. I may wander

From east to occident; cry out for service;

Try many, all good; serve truly; never

Find such another master

Lucius

‘Lack, good youth!

Thou mov’st no less with thy complaining than

Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend

Imogen

Richard du Champ. [Aside] If I do lie, and do

No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope

They’ll pardon it.- Say you, sir?

Lucius

Thy name?

Imogen

Fidele, sir

Lucius

Thou dost approve thyself the very same;

Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name

Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say

Thou shalt be so well master’d; but, be sure,

No less belov’d. The Roman Emperor’s letters,

Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner

Than thine own worth prefer thee. Go with me

Imogen

I’ll follow, sir. But first, an’t please the gods,

I’ll hide my master from the flies, as deep

As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when

With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha’ strew’d his grave,

And on it said a century of prayers,

Such as I can, twice o’er, I’ll weep and sigh;

And leaving so his service, follow you,

So please you entertain me

Lucius

Ay, good youth;

And rather father thee than master thee

My friends,

The boy hath taught us manly duties; let us

Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can,

And make him with our pikes and partisans

A grave. Come, arm him. Boy, he is preferr’d

By thee to us; and he shall be interr’d

As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes

Some falls are means the happier to arise.

Exeunt

Scene III

Britain. Cymbeline’s palace

Enter Cymbeline, Lords, Pisanio, and attendants

Cymbeline

Again! and bring me word how ‘tis with her

Exit an attendant

A fever with the absence of her son;

A madness, of which her life’s in danger. Heavens,

How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen,

The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen

Upon a desperate bed, and in a time

When fearful wars point at me; her son gone,

So needful for this present. It strikes me past

The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow,

Who needs must know of her departure and

Dost seem so ignorant, we’ll enforce it from thee

By a sharp torture

Pisanio

Sir, my life is yours;

I humbly set it at your will; but for my mistress,

I nothing know where she remains, why gone,

Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness,

Hold me your loyal servant

Lord

Good my liege,

The day that she was missing he was here

I dare be bound he’s true and shall perform

All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten,

There wants no diligence in seeking him,

And will no doubt be found

Cymbeline

The time is troublesome

[To Pisanio] We’ll slip you for a season; but our jealousy

Does yet depend

Lord

So please your Majesty,

The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn,

Are landed on your coast, with a supply

Of Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent

Cymbeline

Now for the counsel of my son and queen!

I am amaz’d with matter

Lord

Good my liege,

Your preparation can affront no less

Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you’re ready

The want is but to put those pow’rs in motion

That long to move

Cymbeline

I thank you. Let’s withdraw,

And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not

What can from Italy annoy us; but

We grieve at chances here. Away!Exeunt all but Pisanio

Pisanio

I heard no letter from my master since

I wrote him Imogen was slain. ‘Tis strange

Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise

To yield me often tidings. Neither know

What is betid to Cloten, but remain

Perplex’d in all. The heavens still must work

Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true

These present wars shall find I love my country,

Even to the note o’ th’ King, or I’ll fall in them

All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d:

Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d

Exit

Scene IV

Wales. Before the cave of Belarius

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus

Guiderius

The noise is round about us

Belarius

Let us from it

Arviragus

What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it

From action and adventure?

Guiderius

Nay, what hope

Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans

Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us

For barbarous and unnatural revolts

During their use, and slay us after

Belarius

Sons,

We’ll higher to the mountains; there secure us

To the King’s party there’s no going. Newness

Of Cloten’s death- we being not known, not muster’d

Among the bands-may drive us to a render

Where we have liv’d, and so extort from’s that

Which we have done, whose answer would be death,

Drawn on with torture

Guiderius

This is, sir, a doubt

In such a time nothing becoming you

Nor satisfying us

Arviragus

It is not likely

That when they hear the Roman horses neigh,

Behold their quarter’d fires, have both their eyes

And ears so cloy’d importantly as now,

That they will waste their time upon our note,

To know from whence we are

Belarius

O, I am known

Of many in the army. Many years,

Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him

From my remembrance. And, besides, the King

Hath not deserv’d my service nor your loves,

Who find in my exile the want of breeding,

The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless

To have the courtesy your cradle promis’d,

But to be still hot summer’s tanlings and

The shrinking slaves of winter

Guiderius

Than be so,

Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to th’ army

I and my brother are not known; yourself

So out of thought, and thereto so o’ergrown,

Cannot be questioned

Arviragus

By this sun that shines,

I’ll thither. What thing is’t that I never

Did see man die! scarce ever look’d on blood

But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison!

Never bestrid a horse, save one that had

A rider like myself, who ne’er wore rowel

Nor iron on his heel! I am asham’d

To look upon the holy sun, to have

The benefit of his blest beams, remaining

So long a poor unknown

Guiderius

By heavens, I’ll go!

If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave,

I’ll take the better care; but if you will not,

The hazard therefore due fall on me by

The hands of Romans!

Arviragus

So say I. Amen

Belarius

No reason I, since of your lives you set

So slight a valuation, should reserve

My crack’d one to more care. Have with you, boys!

If in your country wars you chance to die,

That is my bed too, lads, and there I’ll lie

Lead, lead. [Aside] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn

Till it fly out and show them princes born

Exeunt

Act V

Scene I

Britain. The Roman camp

Enter Posthumus alone, with a bloody handkerchief

Posthumus

Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee; for I wish’d

Thou shouldst be colour’d thus. You married ones,

If each of you should take this course, how many

Must murder wives much better than themselves

For wrying but a little! O Pisanio!

Every good servant does not all commands;

No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you

Should have ta’en vengeance on my faults, I never

Had liv’d to put on this; so had you saved

The noble Imogen to repent, and struck

Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack,

You snatch some hence for little faults; that’s love,

To have them fall no more. You some permit

To second ills with ills, each elder worse,

And make them dread it, to the doer’s thrift

But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills,

And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither

Among th’ Italian gentry, and to fight

Against my lady’s kingdom. ‘Tis enough

That, Britain, I have kill’d thy mistress; peace!

I’ll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens,

Hear patiently my purpose. I’ll disrobe me

Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself

As does a Britain peasant. So I’ll fight

Against the part I come with; so I’ll die

For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life

Is every breath a death. And thus unknown,

Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril

Myself I’ll dedicate. Let me make men know

More valour in me than my habits show

Gods, put the strength o’ th’ Leonati in me!

To shame the guise o’ th’ world, I will begin

The fashion- less without and more within

Exit

Scene II

Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, Leonatus Posthumus following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums

Then enter again, in skirmish, Iachimo and Posthumus

He vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then leaves him

Iachimo

The heaviness and guilt within my bosom

Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady,

The Princess of this country, and the air on’t

Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl,

A very drudge of nature’s, have subdu’d me

In my profession? Knighthoods and honours borne

As I wear mine are titles but of scorn

If that thy gentry, Britain, go before

This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds

Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods.

Exit

The battle continues; the Britons fly; Cymbeline is taken

Then enter to his rescue Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus

Belarius

Stand, stand! We have th’ advantage of the ground;

The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but

The villainy of our fears

Guiderius and Arviragus. Stand, stand, and fight!

Re-enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britons; they rescue Cymbeline, and exeunt.

Then re-enter Lucius and Iachimo, with Imogen

Lucius

Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself;

For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s such

As war were hoodwink’d

Iachimo

‘Tis their fresh supplies

Lucius

It is a day turn’d strangely. Or betimes

Let’s reinforce or fly.

Exeunt

Scene III

Another part of the field

Enter Posthumus and a Britain Lord

Lord

Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?

Posthumus

I did:

Though you, it seems, come from the fliers

Lord

I did

Posthumus

No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost,

But that the heavens fought. The King himself

Of his wings destitute, the army broken,

And but the backs of Britons seen, an flying,

Through a strait lane- the enemy, full-hearted,

Lolling the tongue with slaught’ring, having work

More plentiful than tools to do’t, struck down

Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling

Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm’d

With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living

To die with length’ned shame

Lord

Where was this lane?

Posthumus

Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf,

Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier-

An honest one, I warrant, who deserv’d

So long a breeding as his white beard came to,

In doing this for’s country. Athwart the lane

He, with two striplings- lads more like to run

The country base than to commit such slaughter;

With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer

Than those for preservation cas’d or shame-

Made good the passage, cried to those that fled

‘Our Britain’s harts die flying, not our men

To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand;

Or we are Romans and will give you that,

Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save

But to look back in frown. Stand, stand!’ These three,

Three thousand confident, in act as many-

For three performers are the file when all

The rest do nothing- with this word ‘Stand, stand!’

Accommodated by the place, more charming

With their own nobleness, which could have turn’d

A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks,

Part shame, part spirit renew’d; that some turn’d coward

But by example- O, a sin in war

Damn’d in the first beginners!- gan to look

The way that they did and to grin like lions

Upon the pikes o’ th’ hunters. Then began

A stop i’ th’ chaser, a retire; anon

A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly,

Chickens, the way which they stoop’d eagles; slaves,

The strides they victors made; and now our cowards,

Like fragments in hard voyages, became

The life o’ th’ need. Having found the back-door open

Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound!

Some slain before, some dying, some their friends

O’erborne i’ th’ former wave. Ten chas’d by one

Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty

Those that would die or ere resist are grown

The mortal bugs o’ th’ field

Lord

This was strange chance:

A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys

Posthumus

Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made

Rather to wonder at the things you hear

Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon’t,

And vent it for a mock’ry? Here is one:

‘Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane,

Preserv’d the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’

Lord

Nay, be not angry, sir

Posthumus

‘Lack, to what end?

Who dares not stand his foe I’ll be his friend;

For if he’ll do as he is made to do,

I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too

You have put me into rhyme

Lord

Farewell; you’re angry

Exit

Posthumus

Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery,

To be i’ th’ field and ask ‘What news?’ of me!

To-day how many would have given their honours

To have sav’d their carcasses! took heel to do’t,

And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d,

Could not find death where I did hear him groan,

Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster,

‘Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,

Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we

That draw his knives i’ th’ war. Well, I will find him;

For being now a favourer to the Briton,

No more a Briton, I have resum’d again

The part I came in. Fight I will no more,

But yield me to the veriest hind that shall

Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is

Here made by th’ Roman; great the answer be

Britons must take. For me, my ransom’s death;

On either side I come to spend my breath,

Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear again,

But end it by some means for Imogen

Enter two British Captains and soldiers

First Captain

Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken

‘Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels

Second Captain

There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,

That gave th’ affront with them

First Captain

So ‘tis reported;

But none of ‘em can be found. Stand! who’s there?

Posthumus

A Roman,

Who had not now been drooping here if seconds

Had answer’d him

Second Captain

Lay hands on him; a dog!

A leg of Rome shall not return to tell

What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service,

As if he were of note. Bring him to th’ King

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, and Roman captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a gaoler.

Exeunt omnes

Scene IV

Britain. A prison

Enter Posthumus and two Gaolers

First Gaoler

You shall not now be stol’n, you have locks upon you;

So graze as you find pasture

Second Gaoler

Ay, or a stomach

Exeunt Gaolers

Posthumus

Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way,

I think, to liberty. Yet am I better

Than one that’s sick o’ th’ gout, since he had rather

Groan so in perpetuity than be cur’d

By th’ sure physician death, who is the key

T’ unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter’d

More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give me

The penitent instrument to pick that bolt,

Then, free for ever! Is’t enough I am sorry?

So children temporal fathers do appease;

Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent,

I cannot do it better than in gyves,

Desir’d more than constrain’d. To satisfy,

If of my freedom ‘tis the main part, take

No stricter render of me than my all

I know you are more clement than vile men,

Who of their broken debtors take a third,

A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again

On their abatement; that’s not my desire

For Imogen’s dear life take mine; and though

‘Tis not so dear, yet ‘tis a life; you coin’d it

‘Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp;

Though light, take pieces for the figure’s sake;

You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow’rs,

If you will take this audit, take this life,

And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen!

I’ll speak to thee in silence

[Sleeps]

Solemn music.

Enter, as in an apparition, Sicilius Leonatus, father to Posthumus, an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his Wife, and mother to Posthumus, with music before them.

Then, after other music, follows the two young Leonati, brothers to Posthumus, with wounds, as they died in the wars

They circle Posthumus round as he lies sleeping

Sicilius

No more, thou thunder-master, show

Thy spite on mortal flies

With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,

That thy adulteries

Rates and revenges

Hath my poor boy done aught but well,

Whose face I never saw?

I died whilst in the womb he stay’d

Attending nature’s law;

Whose father then, as men report

Thou orphans’ father art,

Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him

From this earth-vexing smart

Mother

Lucina lent not me her aid,

But took me in my throes,

That from me was Posthumus ripp’d,

Came crying ‘mongst his foes,

A thing of pity

Sicilius

Great Nature like his ancestry

Moulded the stuff so fair

That he deserv’d the praise o’ th’ world

As great Sicilius’ heir

First Brother

When once he was mature for man,

In Britain where was he

That could stand up his parallel,

Or fruitful object be

In eye of Imogen, that best

Could deem his dignity?

Mother

With marriage wherefore was he mock’d,

To be exil’d and thrown

From Leonati seat and cast

From her his dearest one,

Sweet Imogen?

Sicilius

Why did you suffer Iachimo,

Slight thing of Italy,

To taint his nobler heart and brain

With needless jealousy,

And to become the geck and scorn

O’ th’ other’s villainy?

Second Brother

For this from stiller seats we came,

Our parents and us twain,

That, striking in our country’s cause,

Fell bravely and were slain,

Our fealty and Tenantius’ right

With honour to maintain

First Brother

Like hardiment Posthumus hath

To Cymbeline perform’d

Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods,

Why hast thou thus adjourn’d

The graces for his merits due,

Being all to dolours turn’d?

Sicilius

Thy crystal window ope; look out;

No longer exercise

Upon a valiant race thy harsh

And potent injuries

Mother

Since, Jupiter, our son is good,

Take off his miseries

Sicilius

Peep through thy marble mansion. Help!

Or we poor ghosts will cry

To th’ shining synod of the rest

Against thy deity

Brothers

Help, Jupiter! or we appeal,

And from thy justice fly

Jupiter descends-in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle.

He throws a thunderbolt.

The Ghosts fall on their knees

Jupiter

No more, you petty spirits of region low,

Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts

Accuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know,

Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts?

Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest

Upon your never-withering banks of flow’rs

Be not with mortal accidents opprest:

No care of yours it is; you know ‘tis ours

Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift,

The more delay’d, delighted. Be content;

Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift;

His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent

Our Jovial star reign’d at his birth, and in

Our temple was he married. Rise and fade!

He shall be lord of Lady Imogen,

And happier much by his affliction made

This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein

Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine;

And so, away; no farther with your din

Express impatience, lest you stir up mine

Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.

[Ascends]

Sicilius

He came in thunder; his celestial breath

Was sulpherous to smell; the holy eagle

Stoop’d as to foot us. His ascension is

More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird

Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak,

As when his god is pleas’d

All

Thanks, Jupiter!

Sicilius

The marble pavement closes, he is enter’d

His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest,

Let us with care perform his great behest.

[Ghosts vanish]

Posthumus

[Waking] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot

A father to me; and thou hast created

A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn,

Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born

And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that depend

On greatness’ favour, dream as I have done;

Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve;

Many dream not to find, neither deserve,

And yet are steep’d in favours; so am I,

That have this golden chance, and know not why

What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one!

Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment

Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects

So follow to be most unlike our courtiers,

As good as promise

[Reads]‘When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air;

and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d branches which,

being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old

stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries,

Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.’

‘Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen

Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing,

Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such

As sense cannot untie. Be what it is,

The action of my life is like it, which

I’ll keep, if but for sympathy

Re-enter Gaoler

Gaoler

Come, sir, are you ready for death?

Posthumus

Over-roasted rather; ready long ago

Gaoler

Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are

well cook’d

Posthumus

So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish

pays the shot

Gaoler

A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you

shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills,

which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth

You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much

drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are

paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier

for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of

heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the

charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You

have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and

to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and

counters; so the acquittance follows

Posthumus

I am merrier to die than thou art to live

Gaoler

Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a

man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to

bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look

you, sir, you know not which way you shall go

Posthumus

Yes indeed do I, fellow

Gaoler

Your death has eyes in’s head, then; I have not seen him so

pictur’d. You must either be directed by some that take upon them

to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not

know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you

shall speed in your journey’s end, I think you’ll never return to

tell one

Posthumus

I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct

them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them

Gaoler

What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the

best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s

the way of winking

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King

Posthumus

Thou bring’st good news: I am call’d to be made free

Gaoler

I’ll be hang’d then

Posthumus

Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the

dead

Exeunt Posthumus and Messenger

Gaoler

Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets,

I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier

knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some

of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were

one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there

were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my

present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in’t.

Exit

Scene V

Britain. Cymbeline’s tent

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, Lords, Officers, and attendants

Cymbeline

Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made

Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart

That the poor soldier that so richly fought,

Whose rags sham’d gilded arms, whose naked breast

Stepp’d before targes of proof, cannot be found

He shall be happy that can find him, if

Our grace can make him so

Belarius

I never saw

Such noble fury in so poor a thing;

Such precious deeds in one that promis’d nought

But beggary and poor looks

Cymbeline

No tidings of him?

Pisanio

He hath been search’d among the dead and living,

But no trace of him

Cymbeline

To my grief, I am

The heir of his reward;

[To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus]

which I will add

To you, the liver, heart, and brain, of Britain,

By whom I grant she lives. ‘Tis now the time

To ask of whence you are. Report it

Belarius

Sir,

In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen;

Further to boast were neither true nor modest,

Unless I add we are honest

Cymbeline

Bow your knees

Arise my knights o’ th’ battle; I create you

Companions to our person, and will fit you

With dignities becoming your estates

Enter Cornelius and Ladies

There’s business in these faces. Why so sadly

Greet you our victory? You look like Romans,

And not o’ th’ court of Britain

Cornelius

Hail, great King!

To sour your happiness I must report

The Queen is dead

Cymbeline

Who worse than a physician

Would this report become? But I consider

By med’cine’life may be prolong’d, yet death

Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?

Cornelius

With horror, madly dying, like her life;

Which, being cruel to the world, concluded

Most cruel to herself. What she confess’d

I will report, so please you; these her women

Can trip me if I err, who with wet cheeks

Were present when she finish’d

Cymbeline

Prithee say

Cornelius

First, she confess’d she never lov’d you; only

Affected greatness got by you, not you;

Married your royalty, was wife to your place;

Abhorr’d your person

Cymbeline

She alone knew this;

And but she spoke it dying, I would not

Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed

Cornelius

Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love

With such integrity, she did confess

Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,

But that her flight prevented it, she had

Ta’en off by poison

Cymbeline

O most delicate fiend!

Who is’t can read a woman? Is there more?

Cornelius

More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had

For you a mortal mineral, which, being took,

Should by the minute feed on life, and ling’ring,

By inches waste you. In which time she purpos’d,

By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to

O’ercome you with her show; and in time,

When she had fitted you with her craft, to work

Her son into th’ adoption of the crown;

But failing of her end by his strange absence,

Grew shameless-desperate, open’d, in despite

Of heaven and men, her purposes, repented

The evils she hatch’d were not effected; so,

Despairing, died

Cymbeline

Heard you all this, her women?

Lady

We did, so please your Highness

Cymbeline

Mine eyes

Were not in fault, for she was beautiful;

Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart

That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious

To have mistrusted her; yet, O my daughter!

That it was folly in me thou mayst say,

And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, the Soothsayer, and other

Roman prisoners, guarded; Posthumus behind, and Imogen

Thou com’st not, Caius, now for tribute; that

The Britons have raz’d out, though with the loss

Of many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made suit

That their good souls may be appeas’d with slaughter

Of you their captives, which ourself have granted;

So think of your estate

Lucius

Consider, sir, the chance of war. The day

Was yours by accident; had it gone with us,

We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten’d

Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods

Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives

May be call’d ransom, let it come. Sufficeth

A Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer

Augustus lives to think on’t; and so much

For my peculiar care. This one thing only

I will entreat: my boy, a Briton born,

Let him be ransom’d. Never master had

A page so kind, so duteous, diligent,

So tender over his occasions, true,

So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue join

With my request, which I’ll make bold your Highness

Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm

Though he have serv’d a Roman. Save him, sir,

And spare no blood beside

Cymbeline

I have surely seen him;

His favour is familiar to me. Boy,

Thou hast look’d thyself into my grace,

And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore

To say ‘Live, boy.’ Ne’er thank thy master. Live;

And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,

Fitting my bounty and thy state, I’ll give it;

Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner,

The noblest ta’en

Imogen

I humbly thank your Highness

Lucius

I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad,

And yet I know thou wilt

Imogen

No, no! Alack,

There’s other work in hand. I see a thing

Bitter to me as death; your life, good master,

Must shuffle for itself

Lucius

The boy disdains me,

He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joys

That place them on the truth of girls and boys

Why stands he so perplex’d?

Cymbeline

What wouldst thou, boy?

I love thee more and more; think more and more

What’s best to ask. Know’st him thou look’st on? Speak,

Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?

Imogen

He is a Roman, no more kin to me

Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal,

Am something nearer

Cymbeline

Wherefore ey’st him so?

Imogen

I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you please

To give me hearing

Cymbeline

Ay, with all my heart,

And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?

Imogen

Fidele, sir

Cymbeline

Thou’rt my good youth, my page;

I’ll be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely

[Cymbeline and Imogen converse apart]

Belarius

Is not this boy reviv’d from death?

Arviragus

One sand another

Not more resembles- that sweet rosy lad

Who died and was Fidele. What think you?

Guiderius

The same dead thing alive

Belarius

Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear

Creatures may be alike; were’t he, I am sure

He would have spoke to us

Guiderius

But we saw him dead

Belarius

Be silent; let’s see further

Pisanio

[Aside] It is my mistress

Since she is living, let the time run on

To good or bad.

[Cymbeline and Imogen advance]

Cymbeline

Come, stand thou by our side;

Make thy demand aloud [To Iachimo] Sir, step you forth;

Give answer to this boy, and do it freely,

Or, by our greatness and the grace of it,

Which is our honour, bitter torture shall

Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him

Imogen

My boon is that this gentleman may render

Of whom he had this ring

Posthumus

[Aside] What’s that to him?

Cymbeline

That diamond upon your finger, say

How came it yours?

Iachimo

Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken that

Which to be spoke would torture thee

Cymbeline

How? me?

Iachimo

I am glad to be constrain’d to utter that

Which torments me to conceal. By villainy

I got this ring; ‘twas Leonatus’ jewel,

Whom thou didst banish; and- which more may grieve thee,

As it doth me- a nobler sir ne’er liv’d

‘Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?

Cymbeline

All that belongs to this

Iachimo

That paragon, thy daughter,

For whom my heart drops blood and my false spirits

Quail to remember- Give me leave, I faint

Cymbeline

My daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength;

I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will

Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak

Iachimo

Upon a time- unhappy was the clock

That struck the hour!- was in Rome- accurs’d

The mansion where!- ‘twas at a feast- O, would

Our viands had been poison’d, or at least

Those which I heav’d to head!- the good Posthumus-

What should I say? he was too good to be

Where ill men were, and was the best of all

Amongst the rar’st of good ones- sitting sadly

Hearing us praise our loves of Italy

For beauty that made barren the swell’d boast

Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming

The shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva,

Postures beyond brief nature; for condition,

A shop of all the qualities that man

Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving,

Fairness which strikes the eye-

Cymbeline

I stand on fire

Come to the matter

Iachimo

All too soon I shall,

Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus,

Most like a noble lord in love and one

That had a royal lover, took his hint;

And not dispraising whom we prais’d- therein

He was as calm as virtue- he began

His mistress’ picture; which by his tongue being made,

And then a mind put in’t, either our brags

Were crack’d of kitchen trulls, or his description

Prov’d us unspeaking sots

Cymbeline

Nay, nay, to th’ purpose

Iachimo

Your daughter’s chastity- there it begins

He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams

And she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch,

Made scruple of his praise, and wager’d with him

Pieces of gold ‘gainst this which then he wore

Upon his honour’d finger, to attain

In suit the place of’s bed, and win this ring

By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight,

No lesser of her honour confident

Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring;

And would so, had it been a carbuncle

Of Phoebus’ wheel; and might so safely, had it

Been all the worth of’s car. Away to Britain

Post I in this design. Well may you, sir,

Remember me at court, where I was taught

Of your chaste daughter the wide difference

‘Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quench’d

Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain

Gan in your duller Britain operate

Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent;

And, to be brief, my practice so prevail’d

That I return’d with simular proof enough

To make the noble Leonatus mad,

By wounding his belief in her renown

With tokens thus and thus; averring notes

Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet-

O cunning, how I got it!- nay, some marks

Of secret on her person, that he could not

But think her bond of chastity quite crack’d,

I having ta’en the forfeit. Whereupon-

Methinks I see him now-

Posthumus

[Coming forward] Ay, so thou dost,

Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,

Egregious murderer, thief, anything

That’s due to all the villains past, in being,

To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,

Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send out

For torturers ingenious. It is I

That all th’ abhorred things o’ th’ earth amend

By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,

That kill’d thy daughter; villain-like, I lie-

That caus’d a lesser villain than myself,

A sacrilegious thief, to do’t. The temple

Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself

Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set

The dogs o’ th’ street to bay me. Every villain

Be call’d Posthumus Leonatus, and

Be villainy less than ‘twas! O Imogen!

My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,

Imogen, Imogen!

Imogen

Peace, my lord. Hear, hear!

Posthumus

Shall’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page,

There lies thy part.

[Strikes her. She falls]

Pisanio

O gentlemen, help!

Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus!

You ne’er kill’d Imogen till now. Help, help!

Mine honour’d lady!

Cymbeline

Does the world go round?

Posthumus

How comes these staggers on me?

Pisanio

Wake, my mistress!

Cymbeline

If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me

To death with mortal joy

Pisanio

How fares my mistress?

Imogen

O, get thee from my sight;

Thou gav’st me poison. Dangerous fellow, hence!

Breathe not where princes are

Cymbeline

The tune of Imogen!

Pisanio

Lady,

The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if

That box I gave you was not thought by me

A precious thing! I had it from the Queen

Cymbeline

New matter still?

Imogen

It poison’d me

Cornelius

O gods!

I left out one thing which the Queen confess’d,

Which must approve thee honest. ‘If Pisanio

Have’ said she ‘given his mistress that confection

Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv’d

As I would serve a rat.’

Cymbeline

What’s this, Cornelius?

Cornelius

The Queen, sir, very oft importun’d me

To temper poisons for her; still pretending

The satisfaction of her knowledge only

In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs,

Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purpose

Was of more danger, did compound for her

A certain stuff, which, being ta’en would cease

The present pow’r of life, but in short time

All offices of nature should again

Do their due functions. Have you ta’en of it?

Imogen

Most like I did, for I was dead

Belarius

My boys,

There was our error

Guiderius

This is sure Fidele

Imogen

Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?

Think that you are upon a rock, and now

Throw me again.

[Embracing him]

Posthumus

Hang there like fruit, my soul,

Till the tree die!

Cymbeline

How now, my flesh? my child?

What, mak’st thou me a dullard in this act?

Wilt thou not speak to me?

Imogen

[Kneeling] Your blessing, sir

Belarius

[To Guiderius and Arviragus] Though you did love this

youth, I blame ye not;

You had a motive for’t

Cymbeline

My tears that fall

Prove holy water on thee! Imogen,

Thy mother’s dead

Imogen

I am sorry for’t, my lord

Cymbeline

O, she was naught, and long of her it was

That we meet here so strangely; but her son

Is gone, we know not how nor where

Pisanio

My lord,

Now fear is from me, I’ll speak troth. Lord Cloten,

Upon my lady’s missing, came to me

With his sword drawn, foam’d at the mouth, and swore,

If I discover’d not which way she was gone,

It was my instant death. By accident

I had a feigned letter of my master’s

Then in my pocket, which directed him

To seek her on the mountains near to Milford;

Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments,

Which he enforc’d from me, away he posts

With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate

My lady’s honour. What became of him

I further know not

Guiderius

Let me end the story:

I slew him there

Cymbeline

Marry, the gods forfend!

I would not thy good deeds should from my lips

Pluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth,

Deny’t again

Guiderius

I have spoke it, and I did it

Cymbeline

He was a prince

Guiderius

A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me

Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me

With language that would make me spurn the sea,

If it could so roar to me. I cut off’s head,

And am right glad he is not standing here

To tell this tale of mine

Cymbeline

I am sorry for thee

By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and must

Endure our law. Thou’rt dead

Imogen

That headless man

I thought had been my lord

Cymbeline

Bind the offender,

And take him from our presence

Belarius

Stay, sir King

This man is better than the man he slew,

As well descended as thyself, and hath

More of thee merited than a band of Clotens

Had ever scar for. [To the guard] Let his arms alone;

They were not born for bondage

Cymbeline

Why, old soldier,

Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for

By tasting of our wrath? How of descent

As good as we?

Arviragus

In that he spake too far

Cymbeline

And thou shalt die for’t

Belarius

We will die all three;

But I will prove that two on’s are as good

As I have given out him. My sons, I must

For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech,

Though haply well for you

Arviragus

Your danger’s ours

Guiderius

And our good his

Belarius

Have at it then by leave!

Thou hadst, great King, a subject who

Was call’d Belarius

Cymbeline

What of him? He is

A banish’d traitor

Belarius

He it is that hath

Assum’d this age; indeed a banish’d man;

I know not how a traitor

Cymbeline

Take him hence,

The whole world shall not save him

Belarius

Not too hot

First pay me for the nursing of thy sons,

And let it be confiscate all, so soon

As I have receiv’d it

Cymbeline

Nursing of my sons?

Belarius

I am too blunt and saucy: here’s my knee

Ere I arise I will prefer my sons;

Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir,

These two young gentlemen that call me father,

And think they are my sons, are none of mine;

They are the issue of your loins, my liege,

And blood of your begetting

Cymbeline

How? my issue?

Belarius

So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan,

Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d

Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment

Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer’d

Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes-

For such and so they are- these twenty years

Have I train’d up; those arts they have as

Could put into them. My breeding was, sir, as

Your Highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile,

Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children

Upon my banishment; I mov’d her to’t,

Having receiv’d the punishment before

For that which I did then. Beaten for loyalty

Excited me to treason. Their dear loss,

The more of you ‘twas felt, the more it shap’d

Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir,

Here are your sons again, and I must lose

Two of the sweet’st companions in the world

The benediction of these covering heavens

Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy

To inlay heaven with stars

Cymbeline

Thou weep’st and speak’st

The service that you three have done is more

Unlike than this thou tell’st. I lost my children

If these be they, I know not how to wish

A pair of worthier sons

Belarius

Be pleas’d awhile

This gentleman, whom I call Polydore,

Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius;

This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus,

Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp’d

In a most curious mantle, wrought by th’ hand

Of his queen mother, which for more probation

I can with ease produce

Cymbeline

Guiderius had

Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star;

It was a mark of wonder

Belarius

This is he,

Who hath upon him still that natural stamp

It was wise nature’s end in the donation,

To be his evidence now

Cymbeline

O, what am I?

A mother to the birth of three? Ne’er mother

Rejoic’d deliverance more. Blest pray you be,

That, after this strange starting from your orbs,

You may reign in them now! O Imogen,

Thou hast lost by this a kingdom

Imogen

No, my lord;

I have got two worlds by’t. O my gentle brothers,

Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter

But I am truest speaker! You call’d me brother,

When I was but your sister: I you brothers,

When we were so indeed

Cymbeline

Did you e’er meet?

Arviragus

Ay, my good lord

Guiderius

And at first meeting lov’d,

Continu’d so until we thought he died

Cornelius

By the Queen’s dram she swallow’d

Cymbeline

O rare instinct!

When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgment

Hath to it circumstantial branches, which

Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liv’d you?

And when came you to serve our Roman captive?

How parted with your brothers? how first met them?

Why fled you from the court? and whither? These,

And your three motives to the battle, with

I know not how much more, should be demanded,

And all the other by-dependences,

From chance to chance; but nor the time nor place

Will serve our long interrogatories. See,

Posthumus anchors upon Imogen;

And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye

On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting

Each object with a joy; the counterchange

Is severally in all. Let’s quit this ground,

And smoke the temple with our sacrifices

[To Belarius] Thou art my brother; so we’ll hold thee ever

Imogen

You are my father too, and did relieve me

To see this gracious season

Cymbeline

All o’erjoy’d

Save these in bonds. Let them be joyful too,

For they shall taste our comfort

Imogen

My good master,

I will yet do you service

Lucius

Happy be you!

Cymbeline

The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought,

He would have well becom’d this place and grac’d

The thankings of a king

Posthumus

I am, sir,

The soldier that did company these three

In poor beseeming; ‘twas a fitment for

The purpose I then follow’d. That I was he,

Speak, Iachimo. I had you down, and might

Have made you finish

Iachimo

[Kneeling] I am down again;

But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,

As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you,

Which I so often owe; but your ring first,

And here the bracelet of the truest princess

That ever swore her faith

Posthumus

Kneel not to me

The pow’r that I have on you is to spare you;

The malice towards you to forgive you. Live,

And deal with others better

Cymbeline

Nobly doom’d!

We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law;

Pardon’s the word to all

Arviragus

You holp us, sir,

As you did mean indeed to be our brother;

Joy’d are we that you are

Posthumus

Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome,

Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methought

Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d,

Appear’d to me, with other spritely shows

Of mine own kindred. When I wak’d, I found

This label on my bosom; whose containing

Is so from sense in hardness that I can

Make no collection of it. Let him show

His skill in the construction

Lucius

Philarmonus!

Soothsayer

Here, my good lord

Lucius

Read, and declare the meaning

Soothsayer

[Reads] ‘When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself

unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by

a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall

be lopp’d branches which, being dead many years, shall

after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow;

then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate

and flourish in peace and plenty.’

Thou, Leonatus, art the lion’s whelp;

The fit and apt construction of thy name,

Being Leo-natus, doth import so much

[To Cymbeline] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter,

Which we call ‘mollis aer,’ and ‘mollis aer’

We term it ‘mulier’; which ‘mulier’ I divine

Is this most constant wife, who even now

Answering the letter of the oracle,

Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp’d about

With this most tender air

Cymbeline

This hath some seeming

Soothsayer

The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,

Personates thee; and thy lopp’d branches point

Thy two sons forth, who, by Belarius stol’n,

For many years thought dead, are now reviv’d,

To the majestic cedar join’d, whose issue

Promises Britain peace and plenty

Cymbeline

Well,

My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius,

Although the victor, we submit to Caesar

And to the Roman empire, promising

To pay our wonted tribute, from the which

We were dissuaded by our wicked queen,

Whom heavens in justice, both on her and hers,

Have laid most heavy hand

Soothsayer

The fingers of the pow’rs above do tune

The harmony of this peace. The vision

Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke

Of yet this scarce-cold battle, at this instant

Is full accomplish’d; for the Roman eagle,

From south to west on wing soaring aloft,

Lessen’d herself and in the beams o’ th’ sun

So vanish’d; which foreshow’d our princely eagle,

Th’imperial Caesar, Caesar, should again unite

His favour with the radiant Cymbeline,

Which shines here in the west

Cymbeline

Laud we the gods;

And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils

From our bless’d altars. Publish we this peace

To all our subjects. Set we forward; let

A Roman and a British ensign wave

Friendly together. So through Lud’s Town march;

And in the temple of great Jupiter

Our peace we’ll ratify; seal it with feasts

Set on there! Never was a war did cease,

Ere bloody hands were wash’d, with such a peace

Exeunt

-The End-