ACT IIISCENE I. Britain. A hall in Cymbeline’s palace.Enter in stateCymbeline, Queen, ClotenandLordsat one door, and at anotherCaius Luciusand Attendants.CYMBELINE.Now say, what would Augustus Cæsar with us?LUCIUS.When Julius Cæsar, (whose remembrance yetLives in men’s eyes, and will to ears and tonguesBe theme and hearing ever) was in this Britain,And conquer’d it, Cassibelan, thine uncle,Famous in Cæsar’s praises no whit lessThan in his feats deserving it, for himAnd his succession granted Rome a tribute,Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee latelyIs left untender’d.QUEEN.And, to kill the marvel,Shall be so ever.CLOTEN.There be many Cæsars 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 resumeWe have again. Remember, sir, my liege,The kings your ancestors, together withThe natural bravery of your isle, which standsAs Neptune’s park, ribb’d and pal’d inWith rocks unscaleable and roaring waters,With sands that will not bear your enemies’ boatsBut suck them up to th’ top-mast. A kind of conquestCæsar made here, but made not here his bragOf ‘Came, and saw, and overcame.’ With shame(The first that ever touch’d him) he was carriedFrom off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping(Poor ignorant baubles!) on our terrible seas,Like egg-shells mov’d upon their surges, crack’dAs easily ’gainst our rocks; for joy whereofThe fam’d Cassibelan, who was once at point(O, giglot fortune!) to master Cæsar’s sword,Made Lud’s Town with rejoicing fires brightAnd 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 Cæsars. 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 Cæsar 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 extortThis tribute from us, we were free. Cæsar’s ambition,Which swell’d so much that it did almost stretchThe sides o’ th’ world, against all colour hereDid put the yoke upon’s; which to shake offBecomes a warlike people, whom we reckonOurselves to be.CLOTEN.We do.CYMBELINE.Say then to Cæsar,Our ancestor was that Mulmutius whichOrdain’d our laws, whose use the sword of CæsarHath too much mangled; whose repair and franchiseShall, 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 putHis brows within a golden crown, and call’dHimself a king.LUCIUS.I am sorry, Cymbeline,That I am to pronounce Augustus Cæsar(Cæsar, that hath moe kings his servants thanThyself domestic officers) thine enemy.Receive it from me, then: war and confusionIn Cæsar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee; lookFor fury not to be resisted. Thus defied,I thank thee for myself.CYMBELINE.Thou art welcome, Caius.Thy Cæsar knighted me; my youth I spentMuch under him; of him I gather’d honour,Which he to seek of me again, perforce,Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfectThat the Pannonians and Dalmatians forTheir liberties are now in arms, a precedentWhich not to read would show the Britons cold;So Cæsar 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.EnterPisanioreading of a letter.PISANIO.How? of adultery? Wherefore write you notWhat monsters her accuse? Leonatus!O master, what a strange infectionIs fall’n into thy ear! What false Italian(As poisonous-tongu’d as handed) hath prevail’dOn thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No.She’s punish’d for her truth, and undergoes,More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaultsAs would take in some virtue. O my master,Thy mind to her is now as low as wereThy fortunes. How? that I should murder her?Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which IHave made to thy command? I, her? Her blood?If it be so to do good service, neverLet me be counted serviceable. How look IThat I should seem to lack humanitySo much as this fact comes to?[Reads.]‘Do’t. The letterThat I have sent her, by her own commandShall 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’stSo virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes.EnterImogen.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 astronomerThat 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 notThat 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 beYou bees that make these locks of counsel! LoversAnd men in dangerous bonds pray not alike;Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yetYou 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 meHow far ’tis thither. If one of mean affairsMay plod it in a week, why may not IGlide 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 hearingTo th’ smothering of the sense) how far it isTo this same blessed Milford. And by th’ wayTell me how Wales was made so happy asT’ inherit such a haven. But first of all,How we may steal from hence; and for the gapThat we shall make in time from our hence-goingAnd 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 rid’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 wagersWhere horses have been nimbler than the sandsThat run i’ th’ clock’s behalf. But this is fool’ry.Go bid my woman feign a sickness; sayShe’ll home to her father; and provide me presentlyA riding suit, no costlier than would fitA 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 themThat 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 caveBelarius, GuideriusandArviragus.BELARIUS.A goodly day not to keep house with suchWhose roof’s as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gateInstructs you how t’ adore the heavens, and bows youTo a morning’s holy office. The gates of monarchsAre arch’d so high that giants may jet throughAnd keep their impious turbans on withoutGood morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven!We house i’ th’ rock, yet use thee not so hardlyAs 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 youOf courts, of princes, of the tricks in war.This service is not service so being done,But being so allow’d. To apprehend thusDraws us a profit from all things we see,And often to our comfort shall we findThe sharded beetle in a safer holdThan is the full-wing’d eagle. O, this lifeIs nobler than attending for a check,Richer than doing nothing for a robe,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 notWhat air’s from home. Haply this life is best,If quiet life be best; sweeter to youThat have a sharper known; well correspondingWith your stiff age. But unto us it isA cell of ignorance, travelling abed,A prison for a debtor that not daresTo stride a limit.ARVIRAGUS.What should we speak ofWhen we are old as you? When we shall hearThe 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 cageWe 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 climbIs certain falling, or so slipp’ry thatThe fear’s as bad as falling; the toil o’ th’ war,A pain that only seems to seek out dangerI’ th’ name of fame and honour, which dies i’ th’ search,And hath as oft a sland’rous epitaphAs record of fair act; nay, many times,Doth ill deserve by doing well; what’s worse,Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this storyThe world may read in me; my body’s mark’dWith Roman swords, and my report was onceFirst with the best of note. Cymbeline lov’d me;And when a soldier was the theme, my nameWas not far off. Then was I as a treeWhose boughs did bend with fruit. But in one nightA 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’dBefore my perfect honour, swore to CymbelineI was confederate with the Romans. SoFollow’d my banishment, and this twenty yearsThis rock and these demesnes have been my world,Where I have liv’d at honest freedom, paidMore pious debts to heaven than in allThe fore-end of my time. But up to th’ mountains!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 fear no poison, which attendsIn place of greater state. I’ll meet you in the valleys.[ExeuntGuideriusandArviragus.]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 meanlyI’ th’ cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hitThe roofs of palaces, and nature prompts themIn simple and low things to prince it muchBeyond the trick of others. This Polydore,The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whoThe King his father call’d Guiderius—Jove!When on my three-foot stool I sit and tellThe warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly outInto my story; say ‘Thus mine enemy fell,And thus I set my foot on’s neck’; even thenThe princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in postureThat acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,Once Arviragus, in as like a figureStrikes life into my speech, and shows much moreHis own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous’d!O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knowsThou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon,At three and two years old, I stole these babes,Thinking to bar thee of succession asThou 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.EnterPisanioandImogen.IMOGEN.Thou told’st me, when we came from horse, the placeWas near at hand. Ne’er long’d my mother soTo see me first as I have 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 self-explication. Put thyselfInto a haviour of less fear, ere wildnessVanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter?Why tender’st thou that paper to me withA look untender? If’t be summer news,Smile to’t before; if winterly, thou need’stBut 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 tongueMay take off some extremity, which to readWould be even mortal to me.PISANIO.Please you read,And you shall find me, wretched man, a thingThe 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 pandar to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.PISANIO.What shall I need to draw my sword? The paperHath cut her throat already. No, ’tis slander,Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongueOutvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breathRides on the posting winds and doth belieAll 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’ wallsI 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 thoughtPut 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 Æneas,Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon’s weepingDid scandal many a holy tear, took pityFrom most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus,Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men:Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur’dFrom 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 hitThe innocent mansion of my love, my heart.Fear not; ’tis empty of all things but grief;Thy master is not there, who was indeedThe 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 artNo servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughterThere is a prohibition so divineThat 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 LeonatusAll turn’d to heresy? Away, away,Corrupters of my faith, you shall no moreBe stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor foolsBelieve false teachers; though those that are betray’dDo feel the treason sharply, yet the traitorStands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus,That didst set up my disobedience ’gainst the KingMy father, and make me put into contempt the suitsOf princely fellows, shalt hereafter findIt is no act of common passage butA strain of rareness; and I grieve myselfTo think, when thou shalt be disedg’d by herThat now thou tirest on, how thy memoryWill then be pang’d by me. Prithee dispatch.The lamb 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 businesI have not slept one wink.IMOGEN.Do’t, and to bed then.PISANIO.I’ll wake mine eyeballs first.IMOGEN.Wherefore thenDidst undertake it? Why hast thou abus’dSo 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 neverPurpose return. Why hast thou gone so farTo be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand,Th’ elected deer before thee?PISANIO.But to win timeTo lose so bad employment, in the whichI 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, thenMy purpose would prove well. It cannot beBut that my master is abus’d. Some villain,Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you bothThis cursed injury.IMOGEN.Some Roman courtezan!PISANIO.No, on my life!I’ll give but notice you are dead, and send himSome bloody sign of it, for ’tis commandedI 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 amDead to my husband?PISANIO.If you’ll back to th’ court—IMOGEN.No court, no father, nor no more adoWith that harsh, noble, simple nothing,That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to meAs 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 volumeOur Britain seems as of it, but not in’t;In a great pool a swan’s nest. Prithee thinkThere’s livers out of Britain.PISANIO.I am most gladYou think of other place. Th’ ambassador,Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford HavenTomorrow. Now, if you could wear a mindDark as your fortune is, and but disguiseThat which t’ appear itself must not yet beBut by self-danger, you should tread a coursePretty and full of view; yea, happily, nearThe residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,That though his actions were not visible, yetReport should render him hourly to your earAs 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; changeCommand 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, andAs quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you mustForget that rarest treasure of your cheek,Exposing it (but, O, the harder heart!Alack, no remedy) to the greedy touchOf common-kissing Titan, and forgetYour laboursome and dainty trims whereinYou made great Juno angry.IMOGEN.Nay, be brief;I see into thy end, and am almostA man already.PISANIO.First, make yourself but like one.Fore-thinking this, I have already fit(’Tis in my cloak-bag) doublet, hat, hose, allThat answer to them. Would you, in their serving,And with what imitation you can borrowFrom youth of such a season, ’fore noble LuciusPresent yourself, desire his service, tell himWherein you’re happy; which will make him knowIf that his head have ear in music; doubtlessWith 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 failBeginning nor supplyment.IMOGEN.Thou art all the comfortThe gods will diet me with. Prithee away!There’s more to be consider’d; but we’ll evenAll that good time will give us. This attemptI am soldier to, and will abide it withA prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.PISANIO.Well, madam, we must take a short farewell,Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected ofYour 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 seaOr stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of thisWill drive away distemper. To some shade,And fit you to your manhood. May the godsDirect you to the best!IMOGEN.Amen. I thank thee.[Exeunt severally.]SCENE V. Britain. Cymbeline’s palace.EnterCymbeline, Queen, Cloten, LuciusandLords.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 yeMy master’s enemy.CYMBELINE.Our subjects, sir,Will not endure his yoke; and for ourselfTo show less sovereignty than they, must needsAppear unkinglike.LUCIUS.So, sir. I desire of youA 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 forthI wear it as your enemy.LUCIUS.Sir, the eventIs 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![ExeuntLuciusandLords.]QUEEN.He goes hence frowning; but it honours usThat 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 EmperorHow it goes here. It fits us therefore ripelyOur chariots and our horsemen be in readiness.The pow’rs that he already hath in GalliaWill soon be drawn to head, from whence he movesHis war for Britain.QUEEN.’Tis not sleepy business,But must be look’d to speedily and strongly.CYMBELINE.Our expectation that it would be thusHath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,Where is our daughter? She hath not appear’dBefore the Roman, nor to us hath tender’dThe duty of the day. She looks us likeA thing more made of malice than of duty;We have noted it. Call her before us, forWe have been too slight in sufferance.[Exit an Attendant.]QUEEN.Royal sir,Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir’dHath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,’Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty,Forbear sharp speeches to her; she’s a ladySo tender of rebukes that words are strokes,And strokes death to her.EnterAttendant.CYMBELINE.Where is she, sir? HowCan her contempt be answer’d?ATTENDANT.Please you, sir,Her chambers are all lock’d, and there’s no answerThat 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 infirmityShe should that duty leave unpaid to youWhich daily she was bound to proffer. ThisShe wish’d me to make known; but our great courtMade me to blame in memory.CYMBELINE.Her doors lock’d?Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fearProve 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.[ExitCloten.]Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus!He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absenceProceed by swallowing that; for he believesIt 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 flownTo her desir’d Posthumus. Gone she isTo death or to dishonour, and my endCan make good use of either. She being down,I have the placing of the British crown.EnterCloten.How now, my son?CLOTEN.’Tis certain she is fled.Go in and cheer the King. He rages; noneDare come about him.QUEEN.All the better. MayThis 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 exquisiteThan lady, ladies, woman. From every oneThe best she hath, and she, of all compounded,Outsells them all. I love her therefore; butDisdaining me and throwing favours onThe low Posthumus slanders so her judgementThat what’s else rare is chok’d; and in that pointI will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed,To be reveng’d upon her. For when foolsShall—EnterPisanio.Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah?Come hither. Ah, you precious pandar! Villain,Where is thy lady? In a word, or elseThou 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 ripThy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus?From whose so many weights of baseness cannotA 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 homeWhat 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 isThy condemnation and thy death.PISANIO.Then, sir,This paper is the history of my knowledgeTouching her flight.[Presenting a letter.]CLOTEN.Let’s see’t. I will pursue herEven to Augustus’ throne.PISANIO.[Aside.] Or this or perish.She’s far enough; and what he learns by thisMay 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.EnterPisaniowith 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 theeWere 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 speedBe cross’d with slowness! Labour be his meed![Exit.]SCENE VI. Wales. Before the cave of Belarius.EnterImogenalone, in boy’s clothes.IMOGEN.I see a man’s life is a tedious one.I have tir’d myself, and for two nights togetherHave made the ground my bed. I should be sickBut that my resolution helps me. Milford,When from the mountain-top Pisanio show’d thee,Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I thinkFoundations fly the wretched; such, I mean,Where they should be reliev’d. Two beggars told meI could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie,That have afflictions on them, knowing ’tisA punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder,When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulnessIs sorer than to lie for need; and falsehoodIs worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord!Thou art one o’ th’ false ones. Now I think on theeMy hunger’s gone; but even before, I wasAt 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 everOf 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 enemyBut fear the sword, like me, he’ll scarcely look on’t.Such a foe, good heavens![Exit into the cave.]SCENE VII. The same.EnterBelarius, GuideriusandArviragus.BELARIUS.You, Polydore, have prov’d best woodman andAre master of the feast. Cadwal and IWill play the cook and servant; ’tis our match.The sweat of industry would dry and dieBut for the end it works to. Come, our stomachsWill make what’s homely savoury; wearinessCan snore upon the flint, when resty slothFinds 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 thatWhilst 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 thinkHere were a fairy.GUIDERIUS.What’s the matter, sir?BELARIUS.By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not,An earthly paragon! Behold divinenessNo elder than a boy!EnterImogen.IMOGEN.Good masters, harm me not.Before I enter’d here I call’d, and thoughtTo have begg’d or bought what I have took. Good troth,I have stol’n nought; nor would not though I had foundGold strew’d i’ th’ floor. Here’s money for my meat.I would have left it on the board, so soonAs I had made my meal, and partedWith 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 thoseWho worship dirty gods.IMOGEN.I see you’re angry.Know, if you kill me for my fault, I shouldHave 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 whoIs 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 mindsBy this rude place we live in. Well encounter’d!’Tis almost night; you shall have better cheerEre 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 honestyI bid for you as I’d buy.ARVIRAGUS.I’ll make’t my comfortHe is a man. I’ll love him as my brother;And such a welcome as I’d give to himAfter 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 theyHad been my father’s sons! Then had my prizeBeen less, and so more equal ballastingTo 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 virtueWhich their own conscience seal’d them, laying byThat 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 lesswelcome.IMOGEN.Thanks, sir.ARVIRAGUS.I pray draw near.[Exeunt.]SCENE VIII. Rome. A public place.Enter twoRoman SenatorsandTribunes.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 areFull weak to undertake our wars againstThe fall’n-off Britons, that we do inciteThe gentry to this business. He createsLucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes,For this immediate levy, he commandsHis absolute commission. Long live Cæsar!TRIBUNE.Is Lucius general of the forces?SECOND SENATOR.Ay.TRIBUNE.Remaining now in Gallia?FIRST SENATOR.With those legionsWhich I have spoke of, whereunto your levyMust be supplyant. The words of your commissionWill tie you to the numbers and the timeOf their dispatch.TRIBUNE.We will discharge our duty.[Exeunt.]
Enter in stateCymbeline, Queen, ClotenandLordsat one door, and at anotherCaius Luciusand Attendants.
CYMBELINE.Now say, what would Augustus Cæsar with us?
LUCIUS.When Julius Cæsar, (whose remembrance yetLives in men’s eyes, and will to ears and tonguesBe theme and hearing ever) was in this Britain,And conquer’d it, Cassibelan, thine uncle,Famous in Cæsar’s praises no whit lessThan in his feats deserving it, for himAnd his succession granted Rome a tribute,Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee latelyIs left untender’d.
QUEEN.And, to kill the marvel,Shall be so ever.
CLOTEN.There be many Cæsars 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 resumeWe have again. Remember, sir, my liege,The kings your ancestors, together withThe natural bravery of your isle, which standsAs Neptune’s park, ribb’d and pal’d inWith rocks unscaleable and roaring waters,With sands that will not bear your enemies’ boatsBut suck them up to th’ top-mast. A kind of conquestCæsar made here, but made not here his bragOf ‘Came, and saw, and overcame.’ With shame(The first that ever touch’d him) he was carriedFrom off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping(Poor ignorant baubles!) on our terrible seas,Like egg-shells mov’d upon their surges, crack’dAs easily ’gainst our rocks; for joy whereofThe fam’d Cassibelan, who was once at point(O, giglot fortune!) to master Cæsar’s sword,Made Lud’s Town with rejoicing fires brightAnd 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 Cæsars. 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 Cæsar 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 extortThis tribute from us, we were free. Cæsar’s ambition,Which swell’d so much that it did almost stretchThe sides o’ th’ world, against all colour hereDid put the yoke upon’s; which to shake offBecomes a warlike people, whom we reckonOurselves to be.
CLOTEN.We do.
CYMBELINE.Say then to Cæsar,Our ancestor was that Mulmutius whichOrdain’d our laws, whose use the sword of CæsarHath too much mangled; whose repair and franchiseShall, 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 putHis brows within a golden crown, and call’dHimself a king.
LUCIUS.I am sorry, Cymbeline,That I am to pronounce Augustus Cæsar(Cæsar, that hath moe kings his servants thanThyself domestic officers) thine enemy.Receive it from me, then: war and confusionIn Cæsar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee; lookFor fury not to be resisted. Thus defied,I thank thee for myself.
CYMBELINE.Thou art welcome, Caius.Thy Cæsar knighted me; my youth I spentMuch under him; of him I gather’d honour,Which he to seek of me again, perforce,Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfectThat the Pannonians and Dalmatians forTheir liberties are now in arms, a precedentWhich not to read would show the Britons cold;So Cæsar 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.]
EnterPisanioreading of a letter.
PISANIO.How? of adultery? Wherefore write you notWhat monsters her accuse? Leonatus!O master, what a strange infectionIs fall’n into thy ear! What false Italian(As poisonous-tongu’d as handed) hath prevail’dOn thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No.She’s punish’d for her truth, and undergoes,More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaultsAs would take in some virtue. O my master,Thy mind to her is now as low as wereThy fortunes. How? that I should murder her?Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which IHave made to thy command? I, her? Her blood?If it be so to do good service, neverLet me be counted serviceable. How look IThat I should seem to lack humanitySo much as this fact comes to?
[Reads.]
‘Do’t. The letterThat I have sent her, by her own commandShall 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’stSo virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes.
EnterImogen.
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 astronomerThat 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 notThat 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 beYou bees that make these locks of counsel! LoversAnd men in dangerous bonds pray not alike;Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yetYou 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 meHow far ’tis thither. If one of mean affairsMay plod it in a week, why may not IGlide 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 hearingTo th’ smothering of the sense) how far it isTo this same blessed Milford. And by th’ wayTell me how Wales was made so happy asT’ inherit such a haven. But first of all,How we may steal from hence; and for the gapThat we shall make in time from our hence-goingAnd 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 rid’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 wagersWhere horses have been nimbler than the sandsThat run i’ th’ clock’s behalf. But this is fool’ry.Go bid my woman feign a sickness; sayShe’ll home to her father; and provide me presentlyA riding suit, no costlier than would fitA 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 themThat 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.]
Enter from the caveBelarius, GuideriusandArviragus.
BELARIUS.A goodly day not to keep house with suchWhose roof’s as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gateInstructs you how t’ adore the heavens, and bows youTo a morning’s holy office. The gates of monarchsAre arch’d so high that giants may jet throughAnd keep their impious turbans on withoutGood morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven!We house i’ th’ rock, yet use thee not so hardlyAs 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 youOf courts, of princes, of the tricks in war.This service is not service so being done,But being so allow’d. To apprehend thusDraws us a profit from all things we see,And often to our comfort shall we findThe sharded beetle in a safer holdThan is the full-wing’d eagle. O, this lifeIs nobler than attending for a check,Richer than doing nothing for a robe,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 notWhat air’s from home. Haply this life is best,If quiet life be best; sweeter to youThat have a sharper known; well correspondingWith your stiff age. But unto us it isA cell of ignorance, travelling abed,A prison for a debtor that not daresTo stride a limit.
ARVIRAGUS.What should we speak ofWhen we are old as you? When we shall hearThe 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 cageWe 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 climbIs certain falling, or so slipp’ry thatThe fear’s as bad as falling; the toil o’ th’ war,A pain that only seems to seek out dangerI’ th’ name of fame and honour, which dies i’ th’ search,And hath as oft a sland’rous epitaphAs record of fair act; nay, many times,Doth ill deserve by doing well; what’s worse,Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this storyThe world may read in me; my body’s mark’dWith Roman swords, and my report was onceFirst with the best of note. Cymbeline lov’d me;And when a soldier was the theme, my nameWas not far off. Then was I as a treeWhose boughs did bend with fruit. But in one nightA 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’dBefore my perfect honour, swore to CymbelineI was confederate with the Romans. SoFollow’d my banishment, and this twenty yearsThis rock and these demesnes have been my world,Where I have liv’d at honest freedom, paidMore pious debts to heaven than in allThe fore-end of my time. But up to th’ mountains!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 fear no poison, which attendsIn place of greater state. I’ll meet you in the valleys.
[ExeuntGuideriusandArviragus.]
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 meanlyI’ th’ cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hitThe roofs of palaces, and nature prompts themIn simple and low things to prince it muchBeyond the trick of others. This Polydore,The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whoThe King his father call’d Guiderius—Jove!When on my three-foot stool I sit and tellThe warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly outInto my story; say ‘Thus mine enemy fell,And thus I set my foot on’s neck’; even thenThe princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in postureThat acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,Once Arviragus, in as like a figureStrikes life into my speech, and shows much moreHis own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous’d!O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knowsThou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon,At three and two years old, I stole these babes,Thinking to bar thee of succession asThou 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.]
EnterPisanioandImogen.
IMOGEN.Thou told’st me, when we came from horse, the placeWas near at hand. Ne’er long’d my mother soTo see me first as I have 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 self-explication. Put thyselfInto a haviour of less fear, ere wildnessVanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter?Why tender’st thou that paper to me withA look untender? If’t be summer news,Smile to’t before; if winterly, thou need’stBut 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 tongueMay take off some extremity, which to readWould be even mortal to me.
PISANIO.Please you read,And you shall find me, wretched man, a thingThe 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 pandar to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.
PISANIO.What shall I need to draw my sword? The paperHath cut her throat already. No, ’tis slander,Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongueOutvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breathRides on the posting winds and doth belieAll 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’ wallsI 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 thoughtPut 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 Æneas,Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon’s weepingDid scandal many a holy tear, took pityFrom most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus,Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men:Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur’dFrom 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 hitThe innocent mansion of my love, my heart.Fear not; ’tis empty of all things but grief;Thy master is not there, who was indeedThe 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 artNo servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughterThere is a prohibition so divineThat 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 LeonatusAll turn’d to heresy? Away, away,Corrupters of my faith, you shall no moreBe stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor foolsBelieve false teachers; though those that are betray’dDo feel the treason sharply, yet the traitorStands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus,That didst set up my disobedience ’gainst the KingMy father, and make me put into contempt the suitsOf princely fellows, shalt hereafter findIt is no act of common passage butA strain of rareness; and I grieve myselfTo think, when thou shalt be disedg’d by herThat now thou tirest on, how thy memoryWill then be pang’d by me. Prithee dispatch.The lamb 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 businesI have not slept one wink.
IMOGEN.Do’t, and to bed then.
PISANIO.I’ll wake mine eyeballs first.
IMOGEN.Wherefore thenDidst undertake it? Why hast thou abus’dSo 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 neverPurpose return. Why hast thou gone so farTo be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand,Th’ elected deer before thee?
PISANIO.But to win timeTo lose so bad employment, in the whichI 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, thenMy purpose would prove well. It cannot beBut that my master is abus’d. Some villain,Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you bothThis cursed injury.
IMOGEN.Some Roman courtezan!
PISANIO.No, on my life!I’ll give but notice you are dead, and send himSome bloody sign of it, for ’tis commandedI 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 amDead to my husband?
PISANIO.If you’ll back to th’ court—
IMOGEN.No court, no father, nor no more adoWith that harsh, noble, simple nothing,That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to meAs 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 volumeOur Britain seems as of it, but not in’t;In a great pool a swan’s nest. Prithee thinkThere’s livers out of Britain.
PISANIO.I am most gladYou think of other place. Th’ ambassador,Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford HavenTomorrow. Now, if you could wear a mindDark as your fortune is, and but disguiseThat which t’ appear itself must not yet beBut by self-danger, you should tread a coursePretty and full of view; yea, happily, nearThe residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,That though his actions were not visible, yetReport should render him hourly to your earAs 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; changeCommand 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, andAs quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you mustForget that rarest treasure of your cheek,Exposing it (but, O, the harder heart!Alack, no remedy) to the greedy touchOf common-kissing Titan, and forgetYour laboursome and dainty trims whereinYou made great Juno angry.
IMOGEN.Nay, be brief;I see into thy end, and am almostA man already.
PISANIO.First, make yourself but like one.Fore-thinking this, I have already fit(’Tis in my cloak-bag) doublet, hat, hose, allThat answer to them. Would you, in their serving,And with what imitation you can borrowFrom youth of such a season, ’fore noble LuciusPresent yourself, desire his service, tell himWherein you’re happy; which will make him knowIf that his head have ear in music; doubtlessWith 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 failBeginning nor supplyment.
IMOGEN.Thou art all the comfortThe gods will diet me with. Prithee away!There’s more to be consider’d; but we’ll evenAll that good time will give us. This attemptI am soldier to, and will abide it withA prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.
PISANIO.Well, madam, we must take a short farewell,Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected ofYour 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 seaOr stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of thisWill drive away distemper. To some shade,And fit you to your manhood. May the godsDirect you to the best!
IMOGEN.Amen. I thank thee.
[Exeunt severally.]
EnterCymbeline, Queen, Cloten, LuciusandLords.
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 yeMy master’s enemy.
CYMBELINE.Our subjects, sir,Will not endure his yoke; and for ourselfTo show less sovereignty than they, must needsAppear unkinglike.
LUCIUS.So, sir. I desire of youA 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 forthI wear it as your enemy.
LUCIUS.Sir, the eventIs 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!
[ExeuntLuciusandLords.]
QUEEN.He goes hence frowning; but it honours usThat 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 EmperorHow it goes here. It fits us therefore ripelyOur chariots and our horsemen be in readiness.The pow’rs that he already hath in GalliaWill soon be drawn to head, from whence he movesHis war for Britain.
QUEEN.’Tis not sleepy business,But must be look’d to speedily and strongly.
CYMBELINE.Our expectation that it would be thusHath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,Where is our daughter? She hath not appear’dBefore the Roman, nor to us hath tender’dThe duty of the day. She looks us likeA thing more made of malice than of duty;We have noted it. Call her before us, forWe have been too slight in sufferance.
[Exit an Attendant.]
QUEEN.Royal sir,Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir’dHath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,’Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty,Forbear sharp speeches to her; she’s a ladySo tender of rebukes that words are strokes,And strokes death to her.
EnterAttendant.
CYMBELINE.Where is she, sir? HowCan her contempt be answer’d?
ATTENDANT.Please you, sir,Her chambers are all lock’d, and there’s no answerThat 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 infirmityShe should that duty leave unpaid to youWhich daily she was bound to proffer. ThisShe wish’d me to make known; but our great courtMade me to blame in memory.
CYMBELINE.Her doors lock’d?Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fearProve 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.
[ExitCloten.]
Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus!He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absenceProceed by swallowing that; for he believesIt 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 flownTo her desir’d Posthumus. Gone she isTo death or to dishonour, and my endCan make good use of either. She being down,I have the placing of the British crown.
EnterCloten.
How now, my son?
CLOTEN.’Tis certain she is fled.Go in and cheer the King. He rages; noneDare come about him.
QUEEN.All the better. MayThis 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 exquisiteThan lady, ladies, woman. From every oneThe best she hath, and she, of all compounded,Outsells them all. I love her therefore; butDisdaining me and throwing favours onThe low Posthumus slanders so her judgementThat what’s else rare is chok’d; and in that pointI will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed,To be reveng’d upon her. For when foolsShall—
EnterPisanio.
Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah?Come hither. Ah, you precious pandar! Villain,Where is thy lady? In a word, or elseThou 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 ripThy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus?From whose so many weights of baseness cannotA 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 homeWhat 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 isThy condemnation and thy death.
PISANIO.Then, sir,This paper is the history of my knowledgeTouching her flight.
[Presenting a letter.]
CLOTEN.Let’s see’t. I will pursue herEven to Augustus’ throne.
PISANIO.[Aside.] Or this or perish.She’s far enough; and what he learns by thisMay 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.
EnterPisaniowith 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 theeWere 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 speedBe cross’d with slowness! Labour be his meed!
[Exit.]
EnterImogenalone, in boy’s clothes.
IMOGEN.I see a man’s life is a tedious one.I have tir’d myself, and for two nights togetherHave made the ground my bed. I should be sickBut that my resolution helps me. Milford,When from the mountain-top Pisanio show’d thee,Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I thinkFoundations fly the wretched; such, I mean,Where they should be reliev’d. Two beggars told meI could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie,That have afflictions on them, knowing ’tisA punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder,When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulnessIs sorer than to lie for need; and falsehoodIs worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord!Thou art one o’ th’ false ones. Now I think on theeMy hunger’s gone; but even before, I wasAt 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 everOf 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 enemyBut fear the sword, like me, he’ll scarcely look on’t.Such a foe, good heavens!
[Exit into the cave.]
EnterBelarius, GuideriusandArviragus.
BELARIUS.You, Polydore, have prov’d best woodman andAre master of the feast. Cadwal and IWill play the cook and servant; ’tis our match.The sweat of industry would dry and dieBut for the end it works to. Come, our stomachsWill make what’s homely savoury; wearinessCan snore upon the flint, when resty slothFinds 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 thatWhilst 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 thinkHere were a fairy.
GUIDERIUS.What’s the matter, sir?
BELARIUS.By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not,An earthly paragon! Behold divinenessNo elder than a boy!
EnterImogen.
IMOGEN.Good masters, harm me not.Before I enter’d here I call’d, and thoughtTo have begg’d or bought what I have took. Good troth,I have stol’n nought; nor would not though I had foundGold strew’d i’ th’ floor. Here’s money for my meat.I would have left it on the board, so soonAs I had made my meal, and partedWith 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 thoseWho worship dirty gods.
IMOGEN.I see you’re angry.Know, if you kill me for my fault, I shouldHave 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 whoIs 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 mindsBy this rude place we live in. Well encounter’d!’Tis almost night; you shall have better cheerEre 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 honestyI bid for you as I’d buy.
ARVIRAGUS.I’ll make’t my comfortHe is a man. I’ll love him as my brother;And such a welcome as I’d give to himAfter 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 theyHad been my father’s sons! Then had my prizeBeen less, and so more equal ballastingTo 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 virtueWhich their own conscience seal’d them, laying byThat 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 lesswelcome.
IMOGEN.Thanks, sir.
ARVIRAGUS.I pray draw near.
[Exeunt.]
Enter twoRoman SenatorsandTribunes.
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 areFull weak to undertake our wars againstThe fall’n-off Britons, that we do inciteThe gentry to this business. He createsLucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes,For this immediate levy, he commandsHis absolute commission. Long live Cæsar!
TRIBUNE.Is Lucius general of the forces?
SECOND SENATOR.Ay.
TRIBUNE.Remaining now in Gallia?
FIRST SENATOR.With those legionsWhich I have spoke of, whereunto your levyMust be supplyant. The words of your commissionWill tie you to the numbers and the timeOf their dispatch.
TRIBUNE.We will discharge our duty.
[Exeunt.]