Imo. Who, thy Lord? That is my Lord Leonatus?Oh, learn'd indeed were that AstronomerThat knew the Starres, as I his Characters,Heel'd lay the Future open. You good Gods,Let what is heere contain'd, rellish of Loue,Of my Lords health, of his content: yet notThat we two are asunder, let that grieue him;Some griefes are medcinable, that is one of them,For it doth physicke Loue, of his content,All but in that. Good Wax, thy leaue: blest beYou Bees that make these Lockes of counsaile. Louers,And men in dangerous Bondes pray not alike,Though Forfeytours you cast in prison, yetYou claspe young Cupids Tables: good Newes Gods.Iustice and your Fathers wrath (should he take me in hisDominion) could not be so cruell to me, as you: (oh the deerestof Creatures) would euen renew me with your eyes. Takenotice that I am in Cambria at Milford-Hauen: what yourowne Loue, will out of this aduise you, follow. So he wishes youall happinesse, that remaines loyall to his Vow, and yourencreasingin Loue. Leonatus Posthumus.Oh for a Horse with wings: Hear'st thou Pisanio?He is at Milford-Hauen: Read, and tell meHow farre 'tis thither. If one of meane affairesMay plod it in a weeke, why may not IGlide thither in a day? Then true Pisanio,Who long'st like me, to see thy Lord; who long'st(Oh let me bate) but not like me: yet long'stBut in a fainter kinde. Oh not like me:For mine's beyond, beyond: say, and speake thicke(Loues Counsailor should fill the bores of hearing,To'th' smothering of the Sense) how farre it isTo this same blessed Milford. And by'th' wayTell me how Wales was made so happy, asT' inherite such a Hauen. But first of all,How we may steale from hence: and for the gapThat we shall make in Time, from our hence-going,And our returne, to excuse: but first, how get hence.Why should excuse be borne or ere begot?Weele talke of that heereafter. Prythee speake,How many store of Miles may we well ridTwixt houre, and houre?Pis. One score 'twixt Sun, and Sun,Madam's enough for you: and too much too
Imo. Why, one that rode to's Execution Man,Could neuer go so slow: I haue heard of Riding wagers,Where Horses haue bin nimbler then the SandsThat run i'th' Clocks behalfe. But this is Foolrie,Go, bid my Woman faigne a Sicknesse, sayShe'le home to her Father; and prouide me presentlyA Riding Suit: No costlier then would fitA Franklins Huswife
Pisa. Madam, you're best consider
Imo. I see before me (Man) nor heere, nor heere;Nor what ensues but haue a Fog in themThat I cannot looke through. Away, I prythee,Do as I bid thee: There's no more to say:Accessible is none but Milford way.
Exeunt.
Scena Tertia.
Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus.
Bel. A goodly day, not to keepe house with such,Whose Roofe's as lowe as ours: Sleepe Boyes, this gateInstructs you how t' adore the Heauens; and bowes youTo a mornings holy office. The Gates of MonarchesAre Arch'd so high, that Giants may iet throughAnd keepe their impious Turbonds on, withoutGood morrow to the Sun. Haile thou faire Heauen,We house i'th' Rocke, yet vse thee not so hardlyAs prouder liuers do
Guid. Haile Heauen
Aruir. Haile Heauen
Bela. Now for our Mountaine sport, vp to yond hillYour legges are yong: Ile tread these Flats. Consider,When you aboue perceiue me like a Crow,That it is Place, which lessen's, and sets off,And you may then reuolue what Tales, I haue told you,Of Courts, of Princes; of the Tricks in Warre.This Seruice, is not Seruice; so being done,But being so allowed. To apprehend thus,Drawes vs a profit from all things we see:And often to our comfort, shall we findeThe sharded-Beetle, in a safer holdThen is the full-wing'd Eagle. Oh this life,Is Nobler, then attending for a checke:Richer, then doing nothing for a Babe:Prouder, then rustling in vnpayd-for Silke:Such gaine the Cap of him, that makes him fine,Yet keepes his Booke vncros'd: no life to ours
Gui. Out of your proofe you speak: we poore vnfledg'dHaue neuer wing'd from view o'th' nest; nor knowes notWhat Ayre's from home. Hap'ly this life is best,(If quiet life be best) sweeter to youThat haue a sharper knowne. Well correspondingWith your stiffe Age; but vnto vs, it isA Cell of Ignorance: trauailing a bed,A Prison, or a Debtor, that not daresTo stride a limit
Arui. What should we speake ofWhen we are old as you? When we shall heareThe Raine and winde beate darke December? HowIn this our pinching Caue, shall we discourseThe freezing houres away? We haue seene nothing:We are beastly; subtle as the Fox for prey,Like warlike as the Wolfe, for what we eate:Our Valour is to chace what flyes: Our CageWe make a Quire, as doth the prison'd Bird,And sing our Bondage freely
Bel. How you speake.Did you but know the Citties Vsuries,And felt them knowingly: the Art o'th' Court,As hard to leaue, as keepe: whose top to climbeIs certaine falling: or so slipp'ry, thatThe feare's as bad as falling. The toyle o'th' Warre,A paine that onely seemes to seeke out dangerI'th' name of Fame, and Honor, which dyes i'th' search,And hath as oft a sland'rous Epitaph,As Record of faire Act. Nay, many timesDoth ill deserue, by doing well: what's worseMust curt'sie at the Censure. Oh Boyes, this StorieThe World may reade in me: My bodie's mark'dWith Roman Swords; and my report, was onceFirst, with the best of Note. Cymbeline lou'd me,And when a Souldier was the Theame, my nameWas not farre off: then was I as a TreeWhose boughes did bend with fruit. But in one night,A Storme, or Robbery (call it what you will)Shooke downe my mellow hangings: nay my Leaues,And left me bare to weather
Gui. Vncertaine fauour
Bel. My fault being nothing (as I haue told you oft)But that two Villaines, whose false Oathes preuayl'dBefore my perfect Honor, swore to Cymbeline,I was Confederate with the Romanes: soFollowed my Banishment, and this twenty yeeres,This Rocke, and these Demesnes, haue bene my World,Where I haue liu'd at honest freedome, payedMore pious debts to Heauen, then in allThe fore-end of my time. But, vp to'th' Mountaines,This is not Hunters Language; he that strikesThe Venison first, shall be the Lord o'th' Feast,To him the other two shall minister,And we will feare no poyson, which attendsIn place of greater State:Ile meete you in the Valleyes.
Exeunt.
How hard it is to hide the sparkes of Nature?These Boyes know little they are Sonnes to'th' King,Nor Cymbeline dreames that they are aliue.They thinke they are mine,And though train'd vp thus meanelyI'th' Caue, whereon the Bowe their thoughts do hit,The Roofes of Palaces, and Nature prompts themIn simple and lowe things, to Prince it, muchBeyond the tricke of others. This Paladour,The heyre of Cymbeline and Britaine, whoThe King his Father call'd Guiderius. Ioue,When on my three-foot stoole I sit, and tellThe warlike feats I haue done, his spirits flye outInto my Story: say thus mine Enemy fell,And thus I set my foote on's necke, euen thenThe Princely blood flowes in his Cheeke, he sweats,Straines his yong Nerues, and puts himselfe in postureThat acts my words. The yonger Brother Cadwall,Once Aruiragus, in as like a figureStrikes life into my speech, and shewes much moreHis owne conceyuing. Hearke, the Game is rows'd,Oh Cymbeline, Heauen and my Conscience knowesThou didd'st vniustly banish me: whereonAt three, and two yeeres old, I stole these Babes,Thinking to barre thee of Succession, asThou refts me of my Lands. Euriphile,Thou was't their Nurse, they took thee for their mother,And euery day do honor to her graue:My selfe Belarius, that am Mergan call'dThey take for Naturall Father. The Game is vp.Enter.
Scena Quarta.
Enter Pisanio and Imogen.
Imo. Thou told'st me when we came fro[m] horse, y placeWas neere at hand: Ne're long'd my Mother soTo see me first, as I haue now. Pisanio, Man:Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mindThat makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sighFrom th' inward of thee? One, but painted thusWould be interpreted a thing perplex'dBeyond selfe-explication. Put thy selfeInto a hauiour of lesse feare, ere wildnesseVanquish my stayder Senses. What's the matter?Why render'st thou that Paper to me, withA looke vntender? If't be Summer NewesSmile too't before: if Winterly, thou need'stBut keepe that count'nance stil. My Husbands hand?That Drug-damn'd Italy, hath out-craftied him,And hee's at some hard point. Speake man, thy TongueMay take off some extreamitie, which to readeWould be euen mortall to me
Pis. Please you reade,And you shall finde me (wretched man) a thingThe most disdain'd of Fortune
Imogen reades. Thy Mistris (Pisanio) hath plaide the Strumpet in my Bed: the Testimonies whereof, lyes bleeding in me. I speak not out of weake Surmises, but from proofe as strong as my greefe, and as certaine as I expect my Reuenge. That part, thou (Pisanio) must acte for me, if thy Faith be not tainted with the breach of hers; let thine owne hands take away her life: I shall giue thee opportunity at Milford Hauen. She hath my Letter for the purpose; where, if thou feare to strike, and to make mee certaine it is done, thou art the Pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyall
Pis. What shall I need to draw my Sword, the PaperHath cut her throat alreadie? No, 'tis Slander,Whose edge is sharper then the Sword, whose tongueOut-venomes all the Wormes of Nyle, whose breathRides on the posting windes, and doth belyeAll corners of the World. Kings, Queenes, and States,Maides, Matrons, nay the Secrets of the GraueThis viperous slander enters. What cheere, Madam?Imo. False to his Bed? What is it to be false?To lye in watch there, and to thinke on him?To weepe 'twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge Nature,To breake it with a fearfull dreame of him,And cry my selfe awake? That's false to's bed? Is it?Pisa. Alas good Lady
Imo. I false? Thy Conscience witnesse: Iachimo,Thou didd'st accuse him of Incontinencie,Thou then look'dst like a Villaine: now, me thinkesThy fauours good enough. Some Iay of Italy(Whose mother was her painting) hath betraid him:Poore I am stale, a Garment out of fashion,And for I am richer then to hang by th' walles,I must be ript: To peeces with me: Oh!Mens Vowes are womens Traitors. All good seemingBy thy reuolt (oh Husband) shall be thoughtPut on for Villainy; not borne where't growes,But worne a Baite for Ladies
Pisa. Good Madam, heare me
Imo. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas,Were in his time thought false: and Synons weepingDid scandall many a holy teare: tooke pittyFrom most true wretchednesse. So thou, PosthumusWilt lay the Leauen on all proper men;Goodly, and gallant, shall be false and periur'dFrom thy great faile: Come Fellow, be thou honest,Do thou thy Masters bidding. When thou seest him,A little witnesse my obedience. LookeI draw the Sword my selfe, take it, and hitThe innocent Mansion of my Loue (my Heart:)Feare not, 'tis empty of all things, but Greefe:Thy Master is not there, who was indeedeThe riches of it. Do his bidding, strike,Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause;But now thou seem'st a Coward
Pis. Hence vile Instrument,Thou shalt not damne my hand
Imo. Why, I must dye:And if I do not by thy hand, thou artNo Seruant of thy Masters. Against Selfe-slaughter,There is a prohibition so Diuine,That crauens my weake hand: Come, heere's my heart:Something's a-foot: Soft, soft, wee'l no defence,Obedient as the Scabbard. What is heere,The Scriptures of the Loyall Leonatus,All turn'd to Heresie? Away, awayCorrupters of my Faith, you shall no moreBe Stomachers to my heart: thus may pooru FoolesBeleeue false Teachers: Though those that are betraidDo feele the Treason sharpely, yet the TraitorStands in worse case of woe. And thou Posthumus,That didd'st set vp my disobedience 'gainst the KingMy Father, and makes me put into contempt the suitesOf Princely Fellowes, shalt heereafter findeIt is no acte of common passage, butA straine of Rarenesse: and I greeue my selfe,To thinke, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her,That now thou tyrest on, how thy memoryWill then be pang'd by me. Prythee dispatch,The Lambe entreats the Butcher. Wher's thy knife?Thou art too slow to do thy Masters biddingWhen I desire it too
Pis. Oh gracious Lady:Since I receiu'd command to do this businesse,I haue not slept one winke
Imo. Doo't, and to bed then
Pis. Ile wake mine eye-balles first
Imo. Wherefore thenDidd'st vndertake it? Why hast thou abus'dSo many Miles, with a pretence? This place?Mine Action? and thine owne? Our Horses labour?The Time inuiting thee? The perturb'd CourtFor my being absent? whereunto I neuerPurpose returne. Why hast thou gone so farreTo be vn-bent? when thou hast 'tane thy stand,Th' elected Deere before thee?Pis. But to win timeTo loose so bad employment, in the whichI haue consider'd of a course: good LadieHeare me with patience
Imo. Talke thy tongue weary, speake:I haue heard I am a Strumpet, and mine eareTherein false strooke, can take no greater wound,Nor tent, to bottome that. But speake
Pis. Then Madam,I thought you would not backe againe
Imo. Most like,Bringing me heere to kill me
Pis. Not so neither:But if I were as wise, as honest, thenMy purpose would proue well: it cannot be,But that my Master is abus'd. Some Villaine,I, and singular in his Art, hath done you bothThis cursed iniurie
Imo. Some Roman Curtezan?Pisa. No, on my life:Ile giue but notice you are dead, and send himSome bloody signe of it. For 'tis commandedI should do so: you shall be mist at Court,And that will well confirme it
Imo. Why good Fellow,What shall I do the while? Where bide? How liue?Or in my life, what comfort, when I amDead to my Husband?Pis. If you'l backe to'th' Court
Imo. No Court, no Father, nor no more adoeWith that harsh, noble, simple nothing:That Clotten, whose Loue-suite hath bene to meAs fearefull as a Siege
Pis. If not at Court,Then not in Britaine must you bide
Imo. Where then?Hath Britaine all the Sunne that shines? Day? Night?Are they not but in Britaine? I'th' worlds VolumeOur Britaine seemes as of it, but not in't:In a great Poole, a Swannes-nest, prythee thinkeThere's liuers out of Britaine
Pis. I am most gladYou thinke of other place: Th' Ambassador,Lucius the Romane comes to Milford-HauenTo morrow. Now, if you could weare a mindeDarke, as your Fortune is, and but disguiseThat which t' appeare it selfe, must not yet be,But by selfe-danger, you should tread a coursePretty, and full of view: yea, happily, neereThe residence of Posthumus; so nie (at least)That though his Actions were not visible, yutReport should render him hourely to your eare,As truely as he mooues
Imo. Oh for such meanes,Though perill to my modestie, not death on'tI would aduenture
Pis. Well then, heere's the point:You must forget to be a Woman: changeCommand, into obedience. Feare, and Nicenesse(The Handmaides of all Women, or more truelyWoman it pretty selfe) into a waggish courage,Ready in gybes, quicke-answer'd, sawcie, andAs quarrellous as the Weazell: Nay, you mustForget that rarest Treasure of your Cheeke,Exposing it (but oh the harder heart,Alacke no remedy) to the greedy touchOf common-kissing Titan: and forgetYour laboursome and dainty Trimmes, whereinYou made great Iuno angry
Imo. Nay be breefe?I see into thy end, and am almostA man already
Pis. First, make your selfe but like one,Fore-thinking this. I haue already fit('Tis in my Cloake-bagge) Doublet, Hat, Hose, allThat answer to them: Would you in their seruing,(And with what imitation you can borrowFrom youth of such a season) 'fore Noble LuciusPresent your selfe, desire his seruice: tell himWherein you're happy; which will make him know,If that his head haue eare in Musicke, doubtlesseWith ioy he will imbrace you: for hee's Honourable,And doubling that, most holy. Your meanes abroad:You haue me rich, and I will neuer faileBeginning, nor supplyment
Imo. Thou art all the comfortThe Gods will diet me with. Prythee away,There's more to be consider'd: but wee'l euenAll that good time will giue vs. This attempt,I am Souldier too, and will abide it withA Princes Courage. Away, I prythee
Pis. Well Madam, we must take a short farewell,Least being mist, I be suspected ofYour carriage from the Court. My Noble Mistris,Heere is a boxe, I had it from the Queene,What's in't is precious: If you are sicke at Sea,Or Stomacke-qualm'd at Land, a Dramme of thisWill driue away distemper. To some shade,And fit you to your Manhood: may the GodsDirect you to the best
Imo. Amen: I thanke thee.
Exeunt.
Scena Quinta.
Enter Cymbeline, Queene, Cloten, Lucius, and Lords.
Cym. Thus farre, and so farewell
Luc. Thankes, Royall Sir:My Emperor hath wrote, I must from hence,And am right sorry, that I must report yeMy Masters Enemy
Cym. Our Subiects (Sir)Will not endure his yoake; and for our selfeTo shew lesse Soueraignty then they, must needsAppeare vn-Kinglike
Luc. So Sir: I desire of youA Conduct ouer Land, to Milford-Hauen.Madam, all ioy befall your Grace, and you
Cym. My Lords, you are appointed for that Office:The due of Honor, in no point omit:So farewell Noble Lucius
Luc. Your hand, my Lord
Clot. Receiue it friendly: but from this time forthI weare it as your Enemy
Luc. Sir, the EuentIs yet to name the winner. Fare you well
Cym. Leaue not the worthy Lucius, good my LordsTill he haue crost the Seuern. Happines.
Exit Lucius, &cQu. He goes hence frowning: but it honours vsThat we haue giuen him cause
Clot. 'Tis all the better,Your valiant Britaines haue their wishes in it
Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the EmperorHow it goes heere. It fits vs therefore ripelyOur Chariots, and our Horsemen be in readinesse:The Powres that he already hath in GalliaWill soone be drawne to head, from whence he mouesHis warre for Britaine
Qu. 'Tis not sleepy businesse,But must be look'd too speedily, and strongly
Cym. Our expectation that it would be thusHath made vs forward. But my gentle Queene,Where is our Daughter? She hath not appear'dBefore the Roman, nor to vs hath tender'dThe duty of the day. She looke vs likeA thing more made of malice, then of duty,We haue noted it. Call her before vs, forWe haue beene too slight in sufferance
Qu. Royall Sir,Since the exile of Posthumus, most retyr'dHath her life bin: the Cure whereof, my Lord,'Tis time must do. Beseech your Maiesty,Forbeare sharpe speeches to her. Shee's a LadySo tender of rebukes, that words are stroke;And strokes death to her.Enter a Messenger.
Cym. Where is she Sir? HowCan her contempt be answer'd?Mes. Please you Sir,Her Chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answerThat will be giuen to'th' lowd of noise, we make
Qu. My Lord, when last I went to visit her,She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close,Whereto constrain'd by her infirmitie,She should that dutie leaue vnpaide to youWhich dayly she was bound to proffer: thisShe wish'd me to make knowne: but our great CourtMade me too blame in memory
Cym. Her doores lock'd?Not seene of late? Grant Heauens, that which IFeare, proue false.Enter.
Qu. Sonne, I say, follow the King
Clot. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old SeruantI haue not seene these two dayes.Enter.
Qu. Go, looke after:Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus,He hath a Drugge of mine: I pray, his absenceProceed by swallowing that. For he beleeuesIt is a thing most precious. But for her,Where is she gone? Haply dispaire hath seiz'd her:Or wing'd with feruour of her loue, she's flowneTo her desir'd Posthumus: gone she is,To death, or to dishonor, and my endCan make good vse of either. Shee being downe,I haue the placing of the Brittish Crowne.Enter Cloten.
How now, my Sonne?Clot. 'Tis certaine she is fled:Go in and cheere the King, he rages, noneDare come about him
Qu. All the better: mayThis night fore-stall him of the comming day.
Exit Qu.
Clo. I loue, and hate her: for she's Faire and Royall,And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisiteThen Lady, Ladies, Woman, from euery oneThe best she hath, and she of all compoundedOut-selles them all. I loue her therefore, butDisdaining me, and throwing Fauours onThe low Posthumus, slanders so her iudgement,That what's else rare, is choak'd: and in that pointI will conclude to hate her, nay indeede,To be reueng'd vpon her. For, when Fooles shall-Enter Pisanio.
Who is heere? What, are you packing sirrah?Come hither: Ah you precious Pandar, Villaine,Where is thy Lady? In a word, or elseThou art straightway with the Fiends
Pis. Oh, good my Lord
Clo. Where is thy Lady? Or, by Iupiter,I will not aske againe. Close Villaine,Ile haue this Secret from thy heart, or ripThy heart to finde it. Is she with Posthumus?From whose so many waights of basenesse, cannotA dram of worth be drawne
Pis. Alas, nay Lord,How can she be with him? When was she miss'd?He is in Rome
Clot. Where is she Sir? Come neerer:No farther halting: satisfie me home,What is become of her?Pis. Oh, my all-worthy Lord
Clo. All-worthy Villaine,Discouer where thy Mistris is, at once,At the next word: no more of worthy Lord:Speake, or thy silence on the instant, isThy condemnation, and thy death
Pis. Then Sir:This Paper is the historie of my knowledgeTouching her flight
Clo. Let's see't: I will pursue herEuen to Augustus Throne
Pis. Or this, or perish.She's farre enough, and what he learnes by this,May proue his trauell, not her danger
Clo. Humh
Pis. Ile write to my Lord she's dead: Oh Imogen,Safe mayst thou wander, safe returne agen
Clot. Sirra, is this Letter true?Pis. Sir, as I thinke
Clot. It is Posthumus hand, I know't. Sirrah, if thou would'st not be a Villain, but do me true seruice: vndergo those Imployments wherin I should haue cause to vse thee with a serious industry, that is, what villainy soere I bid thee do to performe it, directly and truely, I would thinke thee an honest man: thou should'st neither want my meanes for thy releefe, nor my voyce for thy preferment
Pis. Well, my good Lord
Clot. Wilt thou serue mee? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stucke to the bare Fortune of that Begger Posthumus, thou canst not in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serue mee? Pis. Sir, I will
Clo. Giue mee thy hand, heere's my purse. Hast anyof thy late Masters Garments in thy possession?Pisan. I haue (my Lord) at my Lodging, the sameSuite he wore, when he tooke leaue of my Ladie & Mistresse
Clo. The first seruice thou dost mee, fetch that Suitehither, let it be thy first seruice, go
Pis. I shall my Lord.Enter.
Clo. Meet thee at Milford-Hauen: (I forgot to aske him one thing, Ile remember't anon:) euen there, thou villaine Posthumus will I kill thee. I would these Garments were come. She saide vpon a time (the bitternesse of it, I now belch from my heart) that shee held the very Garment of Posthumus, in more respect, then my Noble and naturall person; together with the adornement of my Qualities. With that Suite vpon my backe wil I rauish her: first kill him, and in her eyes; there shall she see my valour, which wil then be a torment to hir contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insulment ended on his dead bodie, and when my Lust hath dined (which, as I say, to vex her, I will execute in the Cloathes that she so prais'd:) to the Court Ile knock her backe, foot her home againe. She hath despis'd mee reioycingly, and Ile bee merry in my Reuenge. Enter Pisanio.
Be those the Garments?Pis. I, my Noble Lord
Clo. How long is't since she went to Milford-Hauen?Pis. She can scarse be there yet
Clo. Bring this Apparrell to my Chamber, that is the second thing that I haue commanded thee. The third is, that thou wilt be a voluntarie Mute to my designe. Be but dutious, and true preferment shall tender it selfe to thee. My Reuenge is now at Milford, would I had wings to follow it. Come, and be true.
Exit
Pis. Thou bid'st me to my losse: for true to thee,Were to proue false, which I will neuer beeTo him that is most true. To Milford go,And finde not her, whom thou pursuest. Flow, flowYou Heauenly blessings on her: This Fooles speedeBe crost with slownesse; Labour be his meede.
Exit
Scena Sexta.
Enter Imogen alone.
Imo. I see a mans life is a tedious one,I haue tyr'd my selfe: and for two nights togetherHaue made the ground my bed. I should be sicke,But that my resolution helpes me: Milford,When from the Mountaine top, Pisanio shew'd thee,Thou was't within a kenne. Oh Ioue, I thinkeFoundations flye the wretched: such I meane,Where they should be releeu'd. Two Beggers told me,I could not misse my way. Will poore Folkes lyeThat haue Afflictions on them, knowing 'tisA punishment, or Triall? Yes; no wonder,When Rich-ones scarse tell true. To lapse in FulnesseIs sorer, then to lye for Neede: and FalshoodIs worse in Kings, then Beggers. My deere Lord,Thou art one o'th' false Ones: Now I thinke on thee,My hunger's gone; but euen before, I wasAt point to sinke, for Food. But what is this?Heere is a path too't: 'tis some sauage hold:I were best not call; I dare not call: yet FamineEre cleane it o're-throw Nature, makes it valiant.Plentie, and Peace breeds Cowards: Hardnesse euerOf Hardinesse is Mother. Hoa? who's heere?If any thing that's ciuill, speake: if sauage,Take, or lend. Hoa? No answer? Then Ile enter.Best draw my Sword; and if mine EnemyBut feare the Sword like me, hee'l scarsely looke on't.Such a Foe, good Heauens.Enter.
Scena Septima.
Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus
Bel. You Polidore haue prou'd best Woodman, andAre Master of the Feast: Cadwall, and IWill play the Cooke, and Seruant, 'tis our match:The sweat of industry would dry, and dyeBut for the end it workes too. Come, our stomackesWill make what's homely, sauoury: WearinesseCan snore vpon the Flint, when restie SlothFindes the Downe-pillow hard. Now peace be heere,Poore house, that keep'st thy selfe
Gui. I am throughly weary
Arui. I am weake with toyle, yet strong in appetite
Gui. There is cold meat i'th' Caue, we'l brouz on thatWhil'st what we haue kill'd, be Cook'd
Bel. Stay, come not in:But that it eates our victualles, I should thinkeHeere were a Faiery
Gui. What's the matter, Sir?Bel. By Iupiter an Angell: or if notAn earthly Paragon. Behold DiuinenesseNo elder then a Boy.Enter Imogen.
Imo. Good masters harme me not:Before I enter'd heere, I call'd, and thoughtTo haue begg'd, or bought, what I haue took: good trothI haue stolne nought, nor would not, though I had foundGold strew'd i'th' Floore. Heere's money for my Meate,I would haue left it on the Boord, so sooneAs I had made my Meale; and partedWith Pray'rs for the Prouider
Gui. Money? Youth
Aru. All Gold and Siluer rather turne to durt,As 'tis no better reckon'd, but of thoseWho worship durty Gods
Imo. I see you're angry:Know, if you kill me for my fault, I shouldHaue dyed, had I not made it
Bel. Whether bound?Imo. To Milford-Hauen
Bel. What's your name?Imo. Fidele Sir: I haue a Kinsman, whoIs bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford,To whom being going, almost spent with hunger,I am falne in this offence
Bel. Prythee (faire youth)Thinke vs no Churles: nor measure our good mindesBy this rude place we liue in. Well encounter'd,'Tis almost night, you shall haue better cheereEre you depart; and thankes to stay, and eate it:Boyes, bid him welcome
Gui. Were you a woman, youth,I should woo hard, but be your Groome in honesty:I bid for you, as I do buy
Arui. Ile make't my ComfortHe is a man, Ile loue him as my Brother:And such a welcome as I'ld giue to him(After long absence) such is yours. Most welcome:Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst Friends
Imo. 'Mongst Friends?If Brothers: would it had bin so, that theyHad bin my Fathers Sonnes, then had my prizeBin lesse, and so more equall ballastingTo thee Posthumus
Bel. He wrings at some distresse
Gui. Would I could free't
Arui. Or I, what ere it be,What paine it cost, what danger: Gods!Bel. Hearke Boyes
Imo. Great menThat had a Court no bigger then this Caue,That did attend themselues, and had the vertueWhich their owne Conscience seal'd them: laying byThat nothing-guift of differing MultitudesCould not out-peere these twaine. Pardon me Gods,I'ld change my sexe to be Companion with them,Since Leonatus false
Bel. It shall be so:Boyes wee'l go dresse our Hunt. Faire youth come in;Discourse is heauy, fasting: when we haue supp'dWee'l mannerly demand thee of thy Story,So farre as thou wilt speake it
Gui. Pray draw neere
Arui. The Night to'th' Owle,And Morne to th' Larke lesse welcome
Imo. Thankes Sir
Arui. I pray draw neere.
Exeunt.
Scena Octaua.
Enter two Roman Senators, and Tribunes.
1.Sen. This is the tenor of the Emperors Writ;That since the common men are now in Action'Gainst the Pannonians, and Dalmatians,And that the Legions now in Gallia, areFull weake to vndertake our Warres againstThe falne-off Britaines, that we do inciteThe Gentry to this businesse. He createsLucius Pro-Consull: and to you the TribunesFor this immediate Leuy, he commandsHis absolute Commission. Long liue Caesar
Tri. Is Lucius Generall of the Forces?2.Sen. I
Tri. Remaining now in Gallia?1.Sen. With those LegionsWhich I haue spoke of, whereunto your leuieMust be suppliant: the words of your CommissionWill tye you to the numbers, and the timeOf their dispatch
Tri. We will discharge our duty.
Exeunt.
Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.
Enter Clotten alone.
Clot I am neere to'th' place where they should meet, if Pisanio haue mapp'd it truely. How fit his Garments serue me? Why should his Mistris who was made by him that made the Taylor, not be fit too? The rather (sauing reuerence of the Word) for 'tis saide a Womans fitnesse comes by fits: therein I must play the Workman, I dare speake it to my selfe, for it is not Vainglorie for a man, and his Glasse, to confer in his owne Chamber; I meane, the Lines of my body are as well drawne as his; no lesse young, more strong, not beneath him in Fortunes, beyond him in the aduantage of the time, aboue him in Birth, alike conuersant in generall seruices, and more remarkeable in single oppositions; yet this imperseuerant Thing loues him in my despight. What Mortalitie is? Posthumus, thy head (which now is growing vppon thy shoulders) shall within this houre be off, thy Mistris inforced, thy Garments cut to peeces before thy face: and all this done, spurne her home to her Father, who may (happily) be a little angry for my so rough vsage: but my Mother hauing power of his testinesse, shall turne all into my commendations. My Horse is tyed vp 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 deceiue me. Enter.
Scena Secunda.
Enter Belarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, and Imogen from the Caue.
Bel. You are not well: Remaine heere in the Caue,Wee'l come to you after Hunting
Arui. Brother, stay heere:Are we not Brothers?Imo. So man and man should be,But Clay and Clay, differs in dignitie,Whose dust is both alike. I am very sicke,Gui. Go you to Hunting, Ile abide with him
Imo. So sicke I am not, yet I am not well:But not so Citizen a wanton, asTo seeme to dye, ere sicke: So please you, leaue me,Sticke to your Iournall course: the breach of Custome,Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by meCannot amend me. Society, is no comfortTo one not sociable: I am not very sicke,Since I can reason of it: pray you trust me heere,Ile rob none but my selfe, and let me dyeStealing so poorely
Gui. I loue thee: I haue spoke it,How much the quantity, the waight as much,As I do loue my Father
Bel. What? How? how?Arui. If it be sinne to say so (Sir) I yoake meeIn my good Brothers fault: I know not whyI loue this youth, and I haue heard you say,Loue's reason's, without reason. The Beere at doore,And a demand who is't shall dye, I'ld sayMy Father, not this youth
Bel. Oh noble straine!O worthinesse of Nature, breed of Greatnesse!``Cowards father Cowards, & Base things Syre Bace;``Nature hath Meale, and Bran; Contempt, and Grace.I'me not their Father, yet who this should bee,Doth myracle it selfe, lou'd before mee.'Tis the ninth houre o'th' Morne
Arui. Brother, farewell
Imo. I wish ye sport
Arui. You health. - So please you Sir
Imo. These are kinde Creatures.Gods, what lyes I haue heard:Our Courtiers say, all's sauage, but at Court;Experience, oh thou disproou'st Report.Th' emperious Seas breeds Monsters; for the Dish,Poore Tributary Riuers, as sweet Fish:I am sicke still, heart-sicke; Pisanio,Ile now taste of thy Drugge
Gui. I could not stirre him:He said he was gentle, but vnfortunate;Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest
Arui. Thus did he answer me: yet said heereafter,I might know more
Bel. To'th' Field, to'th' Field:Wee'l leaue you for this time, go in, and rest
Arui. Wee'l not be long away
Bel. Pray be not sicke,For you must be our Huswife
Imo. Well, or ill,I am bound to you.Enter.
Bel. And shal't be euer.This youth, how ere distrest, appeares he hath hadGood Ancestors
Arui. How Angell-like he sings?Gui. But his neate Cookerie?Arui. He cut our Rootes in Charracters,And sawc'st our Brothes, as Iuno had bin sicke,And he her Dieter
Arui. Nobly he yoakesA smiling, with a sigh; as if the sigheWas that it was, for not being such a Smile:The Smile, mocking the Sigh, that it would flyeFrom so diuine a Temple, to commixWith windes, that Saylors raile at
Gui. I do note,That greefe and patience rooted in them both,Mingle their spurres together
Arui. Grow patient,And let the stinking-Elder (Greefe) vntwineHis perishing roote, with the encreasing Vine
Bel. It is great morning. Come away: Who's there?Enter Cloten.
Clo. I cannot finde those Runnagates, that VillaineHath mock'd me. I am faint
Bel. Those Runnagates?Meanes he not vs? I partly know him, 'tisCloten, the Sonne o'th' Queene. I feare some Ambush:I saw him not these many yeares, and yetI know 'tis he: We are held as Out-Lawes: Hence
Gui. He is but one: you, and my Brother searchWhat Companies are neere: pray you away,Let me alone with him
Clot. Soft, what are youThat flye me thus? Some villaine-Mountainers?I haue heard of such. What Slaue art thou?Gui. A thingMore slauish did I ne're, then answeringA Slaue without a knocke
Clot. Thou art a Robber,A Law-breaker, a Villaine: yeeld thee Theefe
Gui. To who? to thee? What art thou? Haue not IAn arme as bigge as thine? A heart, as bigge:Thy words I grant are bigger: for I weare notMy Dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art:Why I should yeeld to thee?Clot. Thou Villaine base,Know'st me not by my Cloathes?Gui. No, nor thy Taylor, Rascall:Who is thy Grandfather? He made those cloathes,Which (as it seemes) make thee
Clo. Thou precious Varlet,My Taylor made them not
Gui. Hence then, and thankeThe man that gaue them thee. Thou art some Foole,I am loath to beate thee
Clot. Thou iniurious Theefe,Heare but my name, and tremble
Gui. What's thy name?Clo. Cloten, thou Villaine
Gui. Cloten, thou double Villaine be thy name,I cannot tremble at it, were it Toad, or Adder, Spider,'Twould moue me sooner
Clot. To thy further feare,Nay, to thy meere Confusion, thou shalt knowI am Sonne to'th' Queene
Gui. I am sorry for't: not seemingSo worthy as thy Birth
Clot. Art not afeard?Gui. Those that I reuerence, those I feare: the Wise:At Fooles I laugh: not feare them
Clot. Dye the death:When I haue slaine thee with my proper hand,Ile follow those that euen now fled hence:And on the Gates of Luds-Towne set your heads:Yeeld Rusticke Mountaineer.
Fight and Exeunt.
Enter Belarius and Aruiragus.
Bel. No Companie's abroad?Arui. None in the world: you did mistake him sure
Bel. I cannot tell: Long is it since I saw him,But Time hath nothing blurr'd those lines of FauourWhich then he wore: the snatches in his voice,And burst of speaking were as his: I am absolute'Twas very Cloten
Arui. In this place we left them;I wish my Brother make good time with him,You say he is so fell
Bel. Being scarse made vp,I meane to man; he had not apprehensionOf roaring terrors: For defect of iudgementIs oft the cause of Feare.Enter Guiderius.
But see thy Brother
Gui. This Cloten was a Foole, an empty purse,There was no money in't: Not HerculesCould haue knock'd out his Braines, for he had none:Yet I not doing this, the Foole had borneMy head, as I do his
Bel. What hast thou done?Gui. I am perfect what: cut off one Clotens head,Sonne to the Queene (after his owne report)Who call'd me Traitor, Mountaineer, and sworeWith his owne single hand heel'd take vs in,Displace our heads, where (thanks the Gods) they growAnd set them on Luds-Towne
Bel. We are all vndone
Gui. Why, worthy Father, what haue we to loose,But that he swore to take our Liues? the LawProtects not vs, then why should we be tender,To let an arrogant peece of flesh threat vs?Play Iudge, and Executioner, all himselfe?For we do feare the Law. What companyDiscouer you abroad?Bel. No single souleCan we set eye on: but in all safe reasonHe must haue some Attendants. Though his HonorWas nothing but mutation, I, and thatFrom one bad thing to worse: Not Frenzie,Not absolute madnesse could so farre haue rau'dTo bring him heere alone: although perhapsIt may be heard at Court, that such as weeCaue heere, hunt heere, are Out-lawes, and in timeMay make some stronger head, the which he hearing,(As it is like him) might breake out, and sweareHeel'd fetch vs in, yet is't not probableTo come alone, either he so vndertaking,Or they so suffering: then on good ground we feare,If we do feare this Body hath a taileMore perillous then the head
Arui. Let Ord'nanceCome as the Gods fore-say it: howsoere,My Brother hath done well
Bel. I had no mindeTo hunt this day: The Boy Fideles sickenesseDid make my way long forth
Gui. With his owne Sword,Which he did waue against my throat, I haue taneHis head from him: Ile throw't into the CreekeBehinde our Rocke, and let it to the Sea,And tell the Fishes, hee's the Queenes Sonne, Cloten,That's all I reake.Enter.
Bel. I feare 'twill be reueng'd:Would (Polidore) thou had'st not done't: though valourBecomes thee well enough
Arui. Would I had done't:So the Reuenge alone pursu'de me: PolidoreI loue thee brotherly, but enuy muchThou hast robb'd me of this deed: I would ReuengesThat possible strength might meet, wold seek vs throughAnd put vs to our answer
Bel. Well, 'tis done:Wee'l hunt no more to day, nor seeke for dangerWhere there's no profit. I prythee to our Rocke,You and Fidele play the Cookes: Ile stayTill hasty Polidore returne, and bring himTo dinner presently
Arui. Poore sicke Fidele.Ile willingly to him, to gaine his colour,Il'd let a parish of such Clotens blood,And praise my selfe for charity.Enter.
Bel. Oh thou Goddesse,Thou diuine Nature; thou thy selfe thou blazon'stIn these two Princely Boyes: they are as gentleAs Zephires blowing below the Violet,Not wagging his sweet head; and yet, as rough(Their Royall blood enchaf'd) as the rud'st winde,That by the top doth take the Mountaine Pine,And make him stoope to th' Vale. 'Tis wonderThat an inuisible instinct should frame themTo Royalty vnlearn'd, Honor vntaught,Ciuility not seene from other: valourThat wildely growes in them, but yeelds a cropAs if it had beene sow'd: yet still it's strangeWhat Clotens being heere to vs portends,Or what his death will bring vs.Enter Guidereus.
Gui. Where's my Brother?I haue sent Clotens Clot-pole downe the streame,In Embassie to his Mother; his Bodie's hostageFor his returne.
Solemn Musick.
Bel. My ingenuous Instrument,(Hearke Polidore) it sounds: but what occasionHath Cadwal now to giue it motion? Hearke
Gui. Is he at home?Bel. He went hence euen now
Gui. What does he meane?Since death of my deer'st MotherIt did not speake before. All solemne thingsShould answer solemne Accidents. The matter?Triumphes for nothing, and lamenting Toyes,Is iollity for Apes, and greefe for Boyes.Is Cadwall mad?Enter Aruiragus, with Imogen dead, bearing her in his Armes.
Bel. Looke, heere he comes,And brings the dire occasion in his Armes,Of what we blame him for
Arui. The Bird is deadThat we haue made so much on. I had ratherHaue skipt from sixteene yeares of Age, to sixty:To haue turn'd my leaping time into a Crutch,Then haue seene this
Gui. Oh sweetest, fayrest Lilly:My Brother weares thee not the one halfe so well,As when thou grew'st thy selfe
Bel. Oh Melancholly,Who euer yet could sound thy bottome? FindeThe Ooze, to shew what Coast thy sluggish careMight'st easilest harbour in. Thou blessed thing,Ioue knowes what man thou might'st haue made: but I,Thou dyed'st a most rare Boy, of Melancholly.How found you him?Arui. Starke, as you see:Thus smiling, as some Fly had tickled slumber,Not as deaths dart being laugh'd at: his right CheekeReposing on a Cushion
Gui. Where?Arui. O'th' floore:His armes thus leagu'd, I thought he slept, and putMy clowted Brogues from off my feete, whose rudenesseAnswer'd my steps too lowd
Gui. Why, he but sleepes:If he be gone, hee'l make his Graue, a Bed:With female Fayries will his Tombe be haunted,And Wormes will not come to thee
Arui. With fayrest FlowersWhil'st Sommer lasts, and I liue heere, Fidele,Ile sweeten thy sad graue: thou shalt not lackeThe Flower that's like thy face. Pale-Primrose, norThe azur'd Hare-Bell, like thy Veines: no, norThe leafe of Eglantine, whom not to slander,Out-sweetned not thy breath: the Raddocke wouldWith Charitable bill (Oh bill sore shamingThose rich-left-heyres, that let their Fathers lyeWithout a Monument) bring thee all this,Yea, and furr'd Mosse besides. When Flowres are noneTo winter-ground thy Coarse-Gui. Prythee haue done,And do not play in Wench-like words with thatWhich is so serious. Let vs bury him,And not protract with admiration, whatIs now due debt. To'th' graue
Arui. Say, where shall's lay him?Gui. By good Euriphile, our Mother
Arui. Bee't so:And let vs (Polidore) though now our voycesHaue got the mannish cracke, sing him to'th' groundAs once to our Mother: vse like note, and words,Saue that Euriphile, must be Fidele
Gui. Cadwall,I cannot sing: Ile weepe, and word it with thee;For Notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worseThen Priests, and Phanes that lye
Arui. Wee'l speake it then
Bel. Great greefes I see med'cine the lesse: For ClotenIs quite forgot. He was a Queenes Sonne, Boyes,And though he came our Enemy, rememberHe was paid for that: though meane, and mighty rottingTogether haue one dust, yet Reuerence(That Angell of the world) doth make distinctionOf place 'tweene high, and low. Our Foe was Princely,And though you tooke his life, as being our Foe,Yet bury him, as a Prince
Gui. Pray you fetch him hither,Thersites body is as good as Aiax,When neyther are aliue
Arui. If you'l go fetch him,Wee'l say our Song the whil'st: Brother begin
Gui. Nay Cadwall, we must lay his head to th' East,My Father hath a reason for't
Arui. 'Tis true
Gui. Come on then, and remoue him
Arui. So, begin.
Guid. Feare no more the heate o'th' Sun,Nor the furious Winters rages,Thou thy worldly task hast don,Home art gon, and tane thy wages.Golden Lads, and Girles all must,As Chimney-Sweepers come to dust
Arui. Feare no more the frowne o'th' Great,Thou art past the Tirants stroake,Care no more to cloath and eate,To thee the Reede is as the Oake:The Scepter, Learning, Physicke must,All follow this and come to dust
Guid. Feare no more the Lightning flash
Arui. Nor th' all-dreaded Thunderstone
Gui. Feare not Slander, Censure rash
Arui. Thou hast finish'd Ioy and mone
Both. All Louers young, all Louers must,Consigne to thee and come to dust
Guid. No Exorcisor harme thee,Arui. Nor no witch-craft charme thee
Guid. Ghost vnlaid forbeare thee
Arui. Nothing ill come neere thee
Both. Quiet consumation haue,And renowned be thy graue.Enter Belarius with the body of Cloten.
Gui. We haue done our obsequies:Come lay him downe
Bel. Heere's a few Flowres, but 'bout midnight more:The hearbes that haue on them cold dew o'th' nightAre strewings fit'st for Graues: vpon their Faces.You were as Flowres, now wither'd: euen soThese Herbelets shall, which we vpon you strew.Come on, away, apart vpon our knees:The ground that gaue them first, ha's them againe:Their pleasures here are past, so are their paine.
Exeunt.
Imogen awakes.
Yes Sir, to Milford-Hauen, which is the way?I thanke you: by yond bush? pray how farre thether?'Ods pittikins: can it be sixe mile yet?I haue gone all night: 'Faith, Ile lye downe, and sleepe.But soft; no Bedfellow? Oh Gods, and Goddesses!These Flowres are like the pleasures of the World;This bloody man the care on't. I hope I dreame:For so I thought I was a Caue-keeper,And Cooke to honest Creatures. But 'tis not so:'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot of nothing,Which the Braine makes of Fumes. Our very eyes,Are sometimes like our Iudgements, blinde. Good faithI tremble still with feare: but if there beYet left in Heauen, as small a drop of pittieAs a Wrens eye; fear'd Gods, a part of it.The Dreame's heere still: euen when I wake it isWithout me, as within me: not imagin'd, felt.A headlesse man? The Garments of Posthumus?I know the shape of's Legge: this is his Hand:His Foote Mercuriall: his martiall ThighThe brawnes of Hercules: but his Iouiall face-Murther in heauen? How? 'tis gone. Pisanio,All Curses madded Hecuba gaue the Greekes,And mine to boot, be darted on thee: thouConspir'd with that Irregulous diuell Cloten,Hath heere 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 brauest vessell of the worldStrooke the maine top! Oh Posthumus, alas,Where is thy head? where's that? Aye me! where's that?Pisanio might haue kill'd thee at the heart,And left this head on. How should this be, Pisanio?'Tis he, and Cloten: Malice, and Lucre in themHaue laid this Woe heere. Oh 'tis pregnant, pregnant!The Drugge he gaue me, which hee said was preciousAnd Cordiall to me, haue I not found itMurd'rous to'th' Senses? That confirmes it home:This is Pisanio's deede, and Cloten: Oh!Giue colour to my pale cheeke with thy blood,That we the horrider may seeme to thoseWhich chance to finde vs. Oh, my Lord! my Lord!Enter Lucius, Captaines, and a Soothsayer.
Cap. To them, the Legions garrison'd in GalliaAfter your will, haue crost the Sea, attendingYou heere at Milford-Hauen, with your Shippes:They are heere in readinesse
Luc. But what from Rome?Cap. The Senate hath stirr'd vp the Confiners,And Gentlemen of Italy, most willing Spirits,That promise Noble Seruice: and they comeVnder the Conduct of bold Iachimo,Syenna's Brother
Luc. When expect you them?Cap. With the next benefit o'th' winde
Luc. This forwardnesseMakes our hopes faire. Command our present numbersBe muster'd: bid the Captaines looke too't. Now Sir,What haue you dream'd of late of this warres purpose
Sooth. Last night, the very Gods shew'd me a vision(I fast, and pray'd for their Intelligence) thus:I saw Ioues Bird, the Roman Eagle wing'dFrom the spungy South, to this part of the West,There vanish'd in the Sun-beames, which portends(Vnlesse my sinnes abuse my Diuination)Successe to th' Roman hoast
Luc. Dreame often so,And neuer false. Soft hoa, what truncke is heere?Without his top? The ruine speakes, that sometimeIt was a worthy building. How? a Page?Or dead, or sleeping on him? But dead rather:For Nature doth abhorre to make his bedWith the defunct, or sleepe vpon the dead.Let's see the Boyes face
Cap. Hee's aliue my Lord
Luc. Hee'l then instruct vs of this body: Young one,Informe vs of thy Fortunes, for it seemesThey craue to be demanded: who is thisThou mak'st thy bloody Pillow? Or who was heThat (otherwise then noble Nature did)Hath alter'd that good Picture? What's thy interestIn this sad wracke? How came't? Who is't?What art thou?Imo. I am nothing; or if not,Nothing to be were better: This was my Master,A very valiant Britaine, and a good,That heere by Mountaineers lyes slaine: Alas,There is no more such Masters: I may wanderFrom East to Occident, cry out for Seruice,Try many, all good: serue truly: neuerFinde such another Master
Luc. 'Lacke, good youth:Thou mou'st no lesse with thy complaining, thenThy Maister in bleeding: say his name, good Friend
Imo. Richard du Champ: If I do lye, and doNo harme by it, though the Gods heare, I hopeThey'l pardon it. Say you Sir?Luc. Thy name?Imo. Fidele Sir
Luc. Thou doo'st approue thy selfe the very same:Thy Name well fits thy Faith; thy Faith, thy Name:Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not sayThou shalt be so well master'd, but be sureNo lesse belou'd. The Romane Emperors LettersSent by a Consull to me, should not soonerThen thine owne worth preferre thee: Go with me
Imo. Ile follow Sir. But first, and't please the Gods,Ile hide my Master from the Flies, as deepeAs these poore Pickaxes can digge: and whenWith wild wood-leaues & weeds, I ha' strew'd his graueAnd on it said a Century of prayers(Such as I can) twice o're, Ile weepe, and sighe,And leauing so his seruice, follow you,So please you entertaine mee
Luc. I good youth,And rather Father thee, then Master thee: My Friends,The Boy hath taught vs manly duties: Let vsFinde out the prettiest Dazied-Plot we can,And make him with our Pikes and PartizansA Graue: Come, Arme him: Boy hee's preferr'dBy thee, to vs, and he shall be interr'dAs Souldiers can. Be cheerefull; wipe thine eyes,Some Falles are meanes the happier to arise.
Exeunt.
Scena Tertia.
Enter Cymbeline, Lords, and Pisanio.
Cym. Againe: and bring me word how 'tis with her,A Feauour with the absence of her Sonne;A madnesse, of which her life's in danger: Heauens,How deeply you at once do touch me. Imogen,The great part of my comfort, gone: My QueeneVpon a desperate bed, and in a timeWhen fearefull Warres point at me: Her Sonne gone,So needfull for this present? It strikes me, pastThe hope of comfort. But for thee, Fellow,Who needs must know of her departure, andDost seeme so ignorant, wee'l enforce it from theeBy a sharpe Torture
Pis. Sir, my life is yours,I humbly set it at your will: But for my Mistris,I nothing know where she remaines: why gone,Nor when she purposes returne. Beseech your Highnes,Hold me your loyall Seruant
Lord. Good my Liege,The day that she was missing, he was heere;I dare be bound hee's true, and shall performeAll parts of his subiection loyally. For Cloten,There wants no diligence in seeking him,And will no doubt be found
Cym. The time is troublesome:Wee'l slip you for a season, but our iealousieDo's yet depend
Lord. So please your Maiesty,The Romaine Legions, all from Gallia drawne,Are landed on your Coast, with a supplyOf Romaine Gentlemen, by the Senate sent
Cym. Now for the Counsaile of my Son and Queen,I am amaz'd with matter
Lord. Good my Liege,Your preparation can affront no lesseThen what you heare of. Come more, for more you're ready:The want is, but to put those Powres in motion,That long to moue
Cym. I thanke you: let's withdrawAnd meete the Time, as it seekes vs. We feare notWhat can from Italy annoy vs, butWe greeue at chances heere. Away.
Exeunt.
Pisa. I heard no Letter from my Master, sinceI wrote him Imogen was slaine. 'Tis strange:Nor heare I from my Mistris, who did promiseTo yeeld me often tydings. Neither know IWhat is betide to Cloten, but remainePerplext in all. The Heauens still must worke:Wherein I am false, I am honest: not true, to be true.These present warres shall finde I loue my Country,Euen to the note o'th' King, or Ile fall in them:All other doubts, by time let them be cleer'd,Fortune brings in some Boats, that are not steer'd.Enter.
Scena Quarta.
Enter Belarius, Guiderius, & Aruiragus.
Gui. The noyse is round about vs
Bel. Let vs from it
Arui. What pleasure Sir, we finde in life, to locke itFrom Action, and Aduenture
Gui. Nay, what hopeHaue we in hiding vs? This way the RomainesMust, or for Britaines slay vs, or receiue vsFor barbarous and vnnaturall ReuoltsDuring their vse, and slay vs after
Bel. Sonnes,Wee'l higher to the Mountaines, there secure vs.To the Kings party there's no going: newnesseOf Clotens death (we being not knowne, nor muster'dAmong the Bands) may driue vs to a renderWhere we haue liu'd; and so extort from's thatWhich we haue done, whose answer would be deathDrawne on with Torture
Gui. This is (Sir) a doubtIn such a time, nothing becomming you,Nor satisfying vs
Arui. It is not likely,That when they heare their Roman horses neigh,Behold their quarter'd Fires; haue both their eyesAnd eares so cloyd importantly as now,That they will waste their time vpon our note,To know from whence we are
Bel. Oh, I am knowneOf many in the Army: Many yeeres(Though Cloten then but young) you see, not wore himFrom my remembrance. And besides, the KingHath not deseru'd my Seruice, nor your Loues,Who finde in my Exile, the want of Breeding;The certainty of this heard life, aye hopelesseTo haue the courtesie your Cradle promis'd,But to be still hot Summers Tanlings, andThe shrinking Slaues of Winter
Gui. Then be so,Better to cease to be. Pray Sir, to'th' Army:I, and my Brother are not knowne; your selfeSo out of thought, and thereto so ore-growne,Cannot be question'd
Arui. By this Sunne that shinesIle thither: What thing is't, that I neuerDid see man dye, scarse euer look'd on blood,But that of Coward Hares, hot Goats, and Venison?Neuer bestrid a Horse saue one, that hadA Rider like my selfe, who ne're wore Rowell,Nor Iron on his heele? I am asham'dTo looke vpon the holy Sunne, to haueThe benefit of his blest Beames, remainingSo long a poore vnknowne
Gui. By heauens Ile go,If you will blesse me Sir, and giue me leaue,Ile take the better care: but if you will not,The hazard therefore due fall on me, byThe hands of Romaines
Arui. So say I, Amen
Bel. No reason I (since of your liues you setSo slight a valewation) should reserueMy crack'd one to more care. Haue with you Boyes:If in your Country warres you chance to dye,That is my Bed too (Lads) and there Ile lye.Lead, lead; the time seems long, their blood thinks scornTill it flye out, and shew them Princes borne.
Exeunt.
Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.
Enter Posthumus alone.
Post. Yea bloody cloth, Ile keep thee: for I am wishtThou should'st be colour'd thus. You married ones,If each of you should take this course, how manyMust murther Wiues much better then themseluesFor wrying but a little? Oh Pisanio,Euery good Seruant do's not all Commands:No Bond, but to do iust ones. Gods, if youShould haue 'tane vengeance on my faults, I neuerHad liu'd to put on this: so had you sauedThe noble Imogen, to repent, and strookeMe (wretch) more worth your Vengeance. But alacke,You snatch some hence for little faults; that's loueTo haue them fall no more: you some permitTo second illes with illes, each elder worse,And make them dread it, to the dooers thrift.But Imogen is your owne, do your best willes,And make me blest to obey. I am brought hitherAmong th' Italian Gentry, and to fightAgainst my Ladies Kingdome: 'Tis enoughThat (Britaine) I haue kill'd thy Mistris: Peace,Ile giue no wound to thee: therefore good Heauens,Heare patiently my purpose. Ile disrobe meOf these Italian weedes, and suite my selfeAs do's a Britaine Pezant: so Ile fightAgainst the part I come with: so Ile dyeFor thee (O Imogen) euen for whom my lifeIs euery breath, a death: and thus, vnknowne,Pittied, nor hated, to the face of perillMy selfe Ile dedicate. Let me make men knowMore valour in me, then my habits show.Gods, put the strength o'th'Leonati in me:To shame the guize o'th' world, I will begin,The fashion lesse without, and more within.Enter.