ACT VSCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp.EnterPosthumusalone, with a bloody handkerchief.POSTHUMUS.Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee; for I wish’dThou shouldst be colour’d thus. You married ones,If each of you should take this course, how manyMust murder wives much better than themselvesFor wrying but a little! O Pisanio!Every good servant does not all commands;No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if youShould have ta’en vengeance on my faults, I neverHad liv’d to put on this; so had you savedThe noble Imogen to repent, and struckMe, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack,You snatch some hence for little faults; that’s love,To have them fall no more. You some permitTo second ills with ills, each elder worse,And make them dread it, to the doers’ thrift.But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills,And make me blest to obey. I am brought hitherAmong th’ Italian gentry, and to fightAgainst my lady’s kingdom. ’Tis enoughThat, Britain, I have kill’d thy mistress; peace!I’ll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens,Hear patiently my purpose. I’ll disrobe meOf these Italian weeds, and suit myselfAs does a Britain peasant. So I’ll fightAgainst the part I come with; so I’ll dieFor thee, O Imogen, even for whom my lifeIs every breath a death. And thus unknown,Pitied nor hated, to the face of perilMyself I’ll dedicate. Let me make men knowMore valour in me than my habits show.Gods, put the strength o’ th’ Leonati in me!To shame the guise o’ th’ world, I will beginThe fashion less without and more within.[Exit.]SCENE II. Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps.EnterLucius, Iachimoand the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another,Leonatus Posthumusfollowing like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish,IachimoandPosthumus.He vanquisheth and disarmethIachimoand then leaves him.IACHIMO.The heaviness and guilt within my bosomTakes off my manhood. I have belied a lady,The Princess of this country, and the air on’tRevengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl,A very drudge of nature’s, have subdu’d meIn my profession? Knighthoods and honours borneAs I wear mine are titles but of scorn.If that thy gentry, Britain, go beforeThis lout as he exceeds our lords, the oddsIs that we scarce are men, and you are gods.[Exit.]The battle continues; the Britons fly;Cymbelineis taken. Then enter to his rescueBelarius, GuideriusandArviragus.BELARIUS.Stand, stand! We have th’ advantage of the ground;The lane is guarded; nothing routs us butThe villainy of our fears.GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS.Stand, stand, and fight!EnterPosthumusand seconds the Britons; they rescueCymbelineand exeunt. Then re-enterLuciusandIachimowithImogen.LUCIUS.Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself;For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s suchAs war were hoodwink’d.IACHIMO.’Tis their fresh supplies.LUCIUS.It is a day turn’d strangely. Or betimesLet’s reinforce or fly.[Exeunt.]SCENE III. Another part of the field.EnterPosthumusand a BritonLord.LORD.Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?POSTHUMUS.I did:Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.LORD.I did.POSTHUMUS.No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost,But that the heavens fought. The King himselfOf his wings destitute, the army broken,And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying,Through a strait lane; the enemy, full-hearted,Lolling the tongue with slaught’ring, having workMore plentiful than tools to do’t, struck downSome mortally, some slightly touch’d, some fallingMerely through fear, that the strait pass was damm’dWith dead men hurt behind, and cowards livingTo die with length’ned shame.LORD.Where was this lane?POSTHUMUS.Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf,Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,An honest one, I warrant, who deserv’dSo long a breeding as his white beard came to,In doing this for’s country. Athwart the laneHe, with two striplings (lads more like to runThe country base than to commit such slaughter;With faces fit for masks, or rather fairerThan those for preservation cas’d or shame)Made good the passage, cried to those that fled‘Our Britain’s harts die flying, not our men.To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand;Or we are Romans and will give you that,Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may saveBut to look back in frown. Stand, stand!’ These three,Three thousand confident, in act as many—For three performers are the file when allThe rest do nothing—with this word ‘Stand, stand!’Accommodated by the place, more charmingWith their own nobleness, which could have turn’dA distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks,Part shame, part spirit renew’d; that some turn’d cowardBut by example (O, a sin in warDamn’d in the first beginners) ’gan to lookThe way that they did and to grin like lionsUpon the pikes o’ th’ hunters. Then beganA stop i’ th’ chaser, a retire; anonA rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly,Chickens, the way which they stoop’d eagles; slaves,The strides they victors made; and now our cowards,Like fragments in hard voyages, becameThe life o’ th’ need. Having found the back-door openOf the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound!Some slain before, some dying, some their friendsO’erborne i’ th’ former wave. Ten chas’d by oneAre now each one the slaughterman of twenty.Those that would die or ere resist are grownThe mortal bugs o’ th’ field.LORD.This was strange chance:A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.POSTHUMUS.Nay, do not wonder at it; you are madeRather to wonder at the things you hearThan to work any. Will you rhyme upon’t,And vent it for a mock’ry? Here is one:‘Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane,Preserv’d the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’LORD.Nay, be not angry, sir.POSTHUMUS.’Lack, to what end?Who dares not stand his foe I’ll be his friend;For if he’ll do as he is made to do,I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too.You have put me into rhyme.LORD.Farewell; you’re angry.[Exit.]POSTHUMUS.Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery,To be i’ th’ field and ask ‘What news?’ of me!Today how many would have given their honoursTo have sav’d their carcasses! took heel to do’t,And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d,Could not find death where I did hear him groan,Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster,’Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than weThat draw his knives i’ th’ war. Well, I will find him;For being now a favourer to the Briton,No more a Briton, I have resum’d againThe part I came in. Fight I will no more,But yield me to the veriest hind that shallOnce touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter isHere made by th’ Roman; great the answer beBritons must take. For me, my ransom’s death;On either side I come to spend my breath,Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear again,But end it by some means for Imogen.Enter two BritishCaptainsand soldiers.FIRST CAPTAIN.Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken.’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.SECOND CAPTAIN.There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,That gave th’ affront with them.FIRST CAPTAIN.So ’tis reported;But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there?POSTHUMUS.A Roman,Who had not now been drooping here if secondsHad answer’d him.SECOND CAPTAIN.Lay hands on him; a dog!A leg of Rome shall not return to tellWhat crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service,As if he were of note. Bring him to th’ King.EnterCymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanioand Roman captives. TheCaptainspresentPosthumus toCymbeline,who delivers him over to a gaoler.[Exeunt omnes.]SCENE IV. Britain. A prison.EnterPosthumusand twoGaolers.FIRST GAOLER. You shall not now be stol’n, you have locks upon you;So graze as you find pasture.SECOND GAOLER.Ay, or a stomach.[ExeuntGaolers.]POSTHUMUS.Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way,I think, to liberty. Yet am I betterThan one that’s sick o’ th’ gout, since he had ratherGroan so in perpetuity than be cur’dBy th’ sure physician death, who is the keyT’ unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter’dMore than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give meThe penitent instrument to pick that bolt,Then, free for ever! Is’t enough I am sorry?So children temporal fathers do appease;Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent,I cannot do it better than in gyves,Desir’d more than constrain’d. To satisfy,If of my freedom ’tis the main part, takeNo stricter render of me than my all.I know you are more clement than vile men,Who of their broken debtors take a third,A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive againOn their abatement; that’s not my desire.For Imogen’s dear life take mine; and though’Tis not so dear, yet ’tis a life; you coin’d it.’Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp;Though light, take pieces for the figure’s sake;You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow’rs,If you will take this audit, take this life,And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen!I’ll speak to thee in silence.[Sleeps.]Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition,Sicilius Leonatus,father toPosthumus,an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his wife andMothertoPosthumus,with music before them. Then, after other music, follows the two youngLeonati,brothers toPosthumus,with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circlePosthumusround as he lies sleeping.SICILIUS.No more, thou thunder-master, showThy spite on mortal flies.With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,That thy adulteriesRates and revenges.Hath my poor boy done aught but well,Whose face I never saw?I died whilst in the womb he stay’dAttending nature’s law;Whose father then, as men reportThou orphans’ father art,Thou shouldst have been, and shielded himFrom this earth-vexing smart.MOTHER.Lucina lent not me her aid,But took me in my throes,That from me was Posthumus ripp’d,Came crying ’mongst his foes,A thing of pity.SICILIUS.Great Nature like his ancestryMoulded the stuff so fairThat he deserv’d the praise o’ th’ worldAs great Sicilius’ heir.FIRST BROTHER.When once he was mature for man,In Britain where was heThat could stand up his parallel,Or fruitful object beIn eye of Imogen, that bestCould deem his dignity?MOTHER.With marriage wherefore was he mock’d,To be exil’d and thrownFrom Leonati seat and castFrom her his dearest one,Sweet Imogen?SICILIUS.Why did you suffer Iachimo,Slight thing of Italy,To taint his nobler heart and brainWith needless jealousy,And to become the geck and scornO’ th’ other’s villainy?SECOND BROTHER.For this from stiller seats we came,Our parents and us twain,That, striking in our country’s cause,Fell bravely and were slain,Our fealty and Tenantius’ rightWith honour to maintain.FIRST BROTHER.Like hardiment Posthumus hathTo Cymbeline perform’d.Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods,Why hast thou thus adjourn’dThe graces for his merits due,Being all to dolours turn’d?SICILIUS.Thy crystal window ope; look out;No longer exerciseUpon a valiant race thy harshAnd potent injuries.MOTHER.Since, Jupiter, our son is good,Take off his miseries.SICILIUS.Peep through thy marble mansion. Help!Or we poor ghosts will cryTo th’ shining synod of the restAgainst thy deity.BROTHERS.Help, Jupiter! or we appeal,And from thy justice fly.Jupiterdescends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. TheGhostsfall on their knees.JUPITER.No more, you petty spirits of region low,Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghostsAccuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know,Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts?Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and restUpon your never-withering banks of flow’rs.Be not with mortal accidents opprest:No care of yours it is; you know ’tis ours.Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift,The more delay’d, delighted. Be content;Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift;His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.Our Jovial star reign’d at his birth, and inOur temple was he married. Rise and fade!He shall be lord of Lady Imogen,And happier much by his affliction made.This tablet lay upon his breast, whereinOur pleasure his full fortune doth confine;And so, away; no farther with your dinExpress impatience, lest you stir up mine.Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.[Ascends.]SICILIUS.He came in thunder; his celestial breathWas sulphurous to smell; the holy eagleStoop’d as to foot us. His ascension isMore sweet than our blest fields. His royal birdPrunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak,As when his god is pleas’d.ALL.Thanks, Jupiter!SICILIUS.The marble pavement closes, he is enter’dHis radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest,Let us with care perform his great behest.[Ghostsvanish.]POSTHUMUS.[Waking.] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begotA father to me; and thou hast createdA mother and two brothers. But, O scorn,Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born.And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that dependOn greatness’ favour, dream as I have done;Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve;Many dream not to find, neither deserve,And yet are steep’d in favours; so am I,That have this golden chance, and know not why.What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one!Be not, as is our fangled world, a garmentNobler than that it covers. Let thy effectsSo follow to be most unlike our courtiers,As good as promise.[Reads.]When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.’Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmenTongue, and brain not; either both or nothing,Or senseless speaking, or a speaking suchAs sense cannot untie. Be what it is,The action of my life is like it, whichI’ll keep, if but for sympathy.EnterGaoler.GAOLER.Come, sir, are you ready for death?POSTHUMUS.Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.GAOLER.Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook’d.POSTHUMUS.So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.GAOLER.A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows.POSTHUMUS.I am merrier to die than thou art to live.GAOLER.Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.POSTHUMUS.Yes indeed do I, fellow.GAOLER.Your death has eyes in’s head, then; I have not seen him so pictur’d. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journey’s end, I think you’ll never return to tell one.POSTHUMUS.I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them.GAOLER.What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of winking.Enter aMessenger.MESSENGER.Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King.POSTHUMUS.Thou bring’st good news: I am call’d to be made free.GAOLER.I’ll be hang’d then.POSTHUMUS.Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.[ExeuntPosthumusandMessenger.]GAOLER.Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in’t.[Exit.]SCENE V. Britain. Cymbeline’s tent.EnterCymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, Lords, Officersand Attendants.CYMBELINE.Stand by my side, you whom the gods have madePreservers of my throne. Woe is my heartThat the poor soldier that so richly fought,Whose rags sham’d gilded arms, whose naked breastStepp’d before targes of proof, cannot be found.He shall be happy that can find him, ifOur grace can make him so.BELARIUS.I never sawSuch noble fury in so poor a thing;Such precious deeds in one that promis’d noughtBut beggary and poor looks.CYMBELINE.No tidings of him?PISANIO.He hath been search’d among the dead and living,But no trace of him.CYMBELINE.To my grief, I amThe heir of his reward, [To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus] which I will addTo you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain,By whom I grant she lives. ’Tis now the timeTo ask of whence you are. Report it.BELARIUS.Sir,In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen;Further to boast were neither true nor modest,Unless I add we are honest.CYMBELINE.Bow your knees.Arise my knights o’ th’ battle; I create youCompanions to our person, and will fit youWith dignities becoming your estates.EnterCorneliusandLadies.There’s business in these faces. Why so sadlyGreet you our victory? You look like Romans,And not o’ th’ court of Britain.CORNELIUS.Hail, great King!To sour your happiness I must reportThe Queen is dead.CYMBELINE.Who worse than a physicianWould this report become? But I considerBy med’cine life may be prolong’d, yet deathWill seize the doctor too. How ended she?CORNELIUS.With horror, madly dying, like her life;Which, being cruel to the world, concludedMost cruel to herself. What she confess’dI will report, so please you; these her womenCan trip me if I err, who with wet cheeksWere present when she finish’d.CYMBELINE.Prithee say.CORNELIUS.First, she confess’d she never lov’d you; onlyAffected greatness got by you, not you;Married your royalty, was wife to your place;Abhorr’d your person.CYMBELINE.She alone knew this;And but she spoke it dying, I would notBelieve her lips in opening it. Proceed.CORNELIUS.Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to loveWith such integrity, she did confessWas as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,But that her flight prevented it, she hadTa’en off by poison.CYMBELINE.O most delicate fiend!Who is’t can read a woman? Is there more?CORNELIUS.More, sir, and worse. She did confess she hadFor you a mortal mineral, which, being took,Should by the minute feed on life, and ling’ring,By inches waste you. In which time she purpos’d,By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, toO’ercome you with her show; and in time,When she had fitted you with her craft, to workHer son into th’ adoption of the crown;But failing of her end by his strange absence,Grew shameless-desperate, open’d, in despiteOf heaven and men, her purposes, repentedThe evils she hatch’d were not effected; so,Despairing, died.CYMBELINE.Heard you all this, her women?LADIES.We did, so please your Highness.CYMBELINE.Mine eyesWere not in fault, for she was beautiful;Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heartThat thought her like her seeming. It had been viciousTo have mistrusted her; yet, O my daughter!That it was folly in me thou mayst say,And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!EnterLucius, Iachimo,theSoothsayerand other Roman prisoners, guarded;Posthumusbehind, andImogen.Thou com’st not, Caius, now for tribute; thatThe Britons have raz’d out, though with the lossOf many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made suitThat their good souls may be appeas’d with slaughterOf you their captives, which ourself have granted;So think of your estate.LUCIUS.Consider, sir, the chance of war. The dayWas yours by accident; had it gone with us,We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten’dOur prisoners with the sword. But since the godsWill have it thus, that nothing but our livesMay be call’d ransom, let it come. SufficethA Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer.Augustus lives to think on’t; and so muchFor my peculiar care. This one thing onlyI will entreat: my boy, a Briton born,Let him be ransom’d. Never master hadA page so kind, so duteous, diligent,So tender over his occasions, true,So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue joinWith my request, which I’ll make bold your HighnessCannot deny; he hath done no Briton harmThough he have serv’d a Roman. Save him, sir,And spare no blood beside.CYMBELINE.I have surely seen him;His favour is familiar to me. Boy,Thou hast look’d thyself into my grace,And art mine own. I know not why, whereforeTo say “Live, boy.” Ne’er thank thy master. Live;And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,Fitting my bounty and thy state, I’ll give it;Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner,The noblest ta’en.IMOGEN.I humbly thank your Highness.LUCIUS.I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad,And yet I know thou wilt.IMOGEN.No, no! Alack,There’s other work in hand. I see a thingBitter to me as death; your life, good master,Must shuffle for itself.LUCIUS.The boy disdains me,He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joysThat place them on the truth of girls and boys.Why stands he so perplex’d?CYMBELINE.What wouldst thou, boy?I love thee more and more; think more and moreWhat’s best to ask. Know’st him thou look’st on? Speak,Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?IMOGEN.He is a Roman, no more kin to meThan I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal,Am something nearer.CYMBELINE.Wherefore ey’st him so?IMOGEN.I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you pleaseTo give me hearing.CYMBELINE.Ay, with all my heart,And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?IMOGEN.Fidele, sir.CYMBELINE.Thou’rt my good youth, my page;I’ll be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely.[Cymbeline and Imogen converse apart.]BELARIUS.Is not this boy reviv’d from death?ARVIRAGUS.One sand anotherNot more resembles that sweet rosy ladWho died and was Fidele. What think you?GUIDERIUS.The same dead thing alive.BELARIUS.Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear.Creatures may be alike; were’t he, I am sureHe would have spoke to us.GUIDERIUS.But we see him dead.BELARIUS.Be silent; let’s see further.PISANIO.[Aside.] It is my mistress.Since she is living, let the time run onTo good or bad.[Cymbeline and Imogen advance.]CYMBELINE.Come, stand thou by our side;Make thy demand aloud. [To Iachimo.] Sir, step you forth;Give answer to this boy, and do it freely,Or, by our greatness and the grace of it,Which is our honour, bitter torture shallWinnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him.IMOGEN.My boon is that this gentleman may renderOf whom he had this ring.POSTHUMUS.[Aside.] What’s that to him?CYMBELINE.That diamond upon your finger, sayHow came it yours?IACHIMO.Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken thatWhich to be spoke would torture thee.CYMBELINE.How? me?IACHIMO.I am glad to be constrain’d to utter thatWhich torments me to conceal. By villainyI got this ring; ’twas Leonatus’ jewel,Whom thou didst banish; and—which more may grieve thee,As it doth me—a nobler sir ne’er liv’d’Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?CYMBELINE.All that belongs to this.IACHIMO.That paragon, thy daughter,For whom my heart drops blood and my false spiritsQuail to remember—Give me leave, I faint.CYMBELINE.My daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength;I had rather thou shouldst live while nature willThan die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak.IACHIMO.Upon a time, unhappy was the clockThat struck the hour: was in Rome, accurs’dThe mansion where: ’twas at a feast, O, wouldOur viands had been poison’d (or at leastThose which I heav’d to head) the good Posthumus(What should I say? he was too good to beWhere ill men were, and was the best of allAmongst the rar’st of good ones) sitting sadlyHearing us praise our loves of ItalyFor beauty that made barren the swell’d boastOf him that best could speak; for feature, lamingThe shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva,Postures beyond brief nature; for condition,A shop of all the qualities that manLoves woman for; besides that hook of wiving,Fairness which strikes the eye.CYMBELINE.I stand on fire.Come to the matter.IACHIMO.All too soon I shall,Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus,Most like a noble lord in love and oneThat had a royal lover, took his hint;And (not dispraising whom we prais’d, thereinHe was as calm as virtue) he beganHis mistress’ picture; which by his tongue being made,And then a mind put in’t, either our bragsWere crack’d of kitchen trulls, or his descriptionProv’d us unspeaking sots.CYMBELINE.Nay, nay, to th’ purpose.IACHIMO.Your daughter’s chastity (there it begins)He spake of her as Dian had hot dreamsAnd she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch,Made scruple of his praise, and wager’d with himPieces of gold ’gainst this which then he woreUpon his honour’d finger, to attainIn suit the place of’s bed, and win this ringBy hers and mine adultery. He, true knight,No lesser of her honour confidentThan I did truly find her, stakes this ring;And would so, had it been a carbuncleOf Phoebus’ wheel; and might so safely, had itBeen all the worth of’s car. Away to BritainPost I in this design. Well may you, sir,Remember me at court, where I was taughtOf your chaste daughter the wide difference’Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quench’dOf hope, not longing, mine Italian brainGan in your duller Britain operateMost vilely; for my vantage, excellent;And, to be brief, my practice so prevail’dThat I return’d with simular proof enoughTo make the noble Leonatus mad,By wounding his belief in her renownWith tokens thus and thus; averring notesOf chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet(O cunning, how I got it!) nay, some marksOf secret on her person, that he could notBut think her bond of chastity quite crack’d,I having ta’en the forfeit. WhereuponMethinks I see him now—POSTHUMUS.[Coming forward.] Ay, so thou dost,Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,Egregious murderer, thief, anythingThat’s due to all the villains past, in being,To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send outFor torturers ingenious. It is IThat all th’ abhorred things o’ th’ earth amendBy being worse than they. I am Posthumus,That kill’d thy daughter; villain-like, I lie;That caus’d a lesser villain than myself,A sacrilegious thief, to do’t. The templeOf virtue was she; yea, and she herself.Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, setThe dogs o’ th’ street to bay me. Every villainBe call’d Posthumus Leonatus, andBe villainy less than ’twas! O Imogen!My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,Imogen, Imogen!IMOGEN.Peace, my lord. Hear, hear!POSTHUMUS.Shall’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page,There lies thy part.[Strikes her. She falls.]PISANIO.O gentlemen, help!Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus!You ne’er kill’d Imogen till now. Help, help!Mine honour’d lady!CYMBELINE.Does the world go round?POSTHUMUS.How comes these staggers on me?PISANIO.Wake, my mistress!CYMBELINE.If this be so, the gods do mean to strike meTo death with mortal joy.PISANIO.How fares my mistress?IMOGEN.O, get thee from my sight;Thou gav’st me poison. Dangerous fellow, hence!Breathe not where princes are.CYMBELINE.The tune of Imogen!PISANIO.Lady,The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, ifThat box I gave you was not thought by meA precious thing! I had it from the Queen.CYMBELINE.New matter still?IMOGEN.It poison’d me.CORNELIUS.O gods!I left out one thing which the Queen confess’d,Which must approve thee honest. ‘If PisanioHave’ said she ‘given his mistress that confectionWhich I gave him for cordial, she is serv’dAs I would serve a rat.’CYMBELINE.What’s this, Cornelius?CORNELIUS.The Queen, sir, very oft importun’d meTo temper poisons for her; still pretendingThe satisfaction of her knowledge onlyIn killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs,Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purposeWas of more danger, did compound for herA certain stuff, which, being ta’en would ceaseThe present pow’r of life, but in short timeAll offices of nature should againDo their due functions. Have you ta’en of it?IMOGEN.Most like I did, for I was dead.BELARIUS.My boys,There was our error.GUIDERIUS.This is sure Fidele.IMOGEN.Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?Think that you are upon a rock, and nowThrow me again.[Embracing him.]POSTHUMUS.Hang there like fruit, my soul,Till the tree die!CYMBELINE.How now, my flesh? my child?What, mak’st thou me a dullard in this act?Wilt thou not speak to me?IMOGEN.[Kneeling.] Your blessing, sir.BELARIUS.[To Guiderius and Arviragus.] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not;You had a motive for’t.CYMBELINE.My tears that fallProve holy water on thee! Imogen,Thy mother’s dead.IMOGEN.I am sorry for’t, my lord.CYMBELINE.O, she was naught, and long of her it wasThat we meet here so strangely; but her sonIs gone, we know not how nor where.PISANIO.My lord,Now fear is from me, I’ll speak troth. Lord Cloten,Upon my lady’s missing, came to meWith his sword drawn, foam’d at the mouth, and swore,If I discover’d not which way she was gone,It was my instant death. By accidentI had a feigned letter of my master’sThen in my pocket, which directed himTo seek her on the mountains near to Milford;Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments,Which he enforc’d from me, away he postsWith unchaste purpose, and with oath to violateMy lady’s honour. What became of himI further know not.GUIDERIUS.Let me end the story:I slew him there.CYMBELINE.Marry, the gods forfend!I would not thy good deeds should from my lipsPluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth,Deny’t again.GUIDERIUS.I have spoke it, and I did it.CYMBELINE.He was a prince.GUIDERIUS.A most incivil one. The wrongs he did meWere nothing prince-like; for he did provoke meWith language that would make me spurn the sea,If it could so roar to me. I cut off’s head,And am right glad he is not standing hereTo tell this tale of mine.CYMBELINE.I am sorry for thee.By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and mustEndure our law. Thou’rt dead.IMOGEN.That headless manI thought had been my lord.CYMBELINE.Bind the offender,And take him from our presence.BELARIUS.Stay, sir King.This man is better than the man he slew,As well descended as thyself, and hathMore of thee merited than a band of ClotensHad ever scar for. [To the guard.] Let his arms alone;They were not born for bondage.CYMBELINE.Why, old soldier,Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid forBy tasting of our wrath? How of descentAs good as we?ARVIRAGUS.In that he spake too far.CYMBELINE.And thou shalt die for’t.BELARIUS.We will die all three;But I will prove that two on’s are as goodAs I have given out him. My sons, I mustFor mine own part unfold a dangerous speech,Though haply well for you.ARVIRAGUS.Your danger’s ours.GUIDERIUS.And our good his.BELARIUS.Have at it then by leave!Thou hadst, great King, a subject whoWas call’d Belarius.CYMBELINE.What of him? He isA banish’d traitor.BELARIUS.He it is that hathAssum’d this age; indeed a banish’d man;I know not how a traitor.CYMBELINE.Take him hence,The whole world shall not save him.BELARIUS.Not too hot.First pay me for the nursing of thy sons,And let it be confiscate all, so soonAs I have receiv’d it.CYMBELINE.Nursing of my sons?BELARIUS.I am too blunt and saucy: here’s my knee.Ere I arise I will prefer my sons;Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir,These two young gentlemen that call me father,And think they are my sons, are none of mine;They are the issue of your loins, my liege,And blood of your begetting.CYMBELINE.How? my issue?BELARIUS.So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan,Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d.Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishmentItself, and all my treason; that I suffer’dWas all the harm I did. These gentle princes(For such and so they are) these twenty yearsHave I train’d up; those arts they have as ICould put into them. My breeding was, sir, asYour Highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile,Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these childrenUpon my banishment; I mov’d her to’t,Having receiv’d the punishment beforeFor that which I did then. Beaten for loyaltyExcited me to treason. Their dear loss,The more of you ’twas felt, the more it shap’dUnto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir,Here are your sons again, and I must loseTwo of the sweet’st companions in the world.The benediction of these covering heavensFall on their heads like dew! for they are worthyTo inlay heaven with stars.CYMBELINE.Thou weep’st and speak’st.The service that you three have done is moreUnlike than this thou tell’st. I lost my children.If these be they, I know not how to wishA pair of worthier sons.BELARIUS.Be pleas’d awhile.This gentleman, whom I call Polydore,Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius;This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus,Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp’dIn a most curious mantle, wrought by th’ handOf his queen mother, which for more probationI can with ease produce.CYMBELINE.Guiderius hadUpon his neck a mole, a sanguine star;It was a mark of wonder.BELARIUS.This is he,Who hath upon him still that natural stamp.It was wise nature’s end in the donation,To be his evidence now.CYMBELINE.O, what am I?A mother to the birth of three? Ne’er motherRejoic’d deliverance more. Blest pray you be,That, after this strange starting from your orbs,You may reign in them now! O Imogen,Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.IMOGEN.No, my lord;I have got two worlds by’t. O my gentle brothers,Have we thus met? O, never say hereafterBut I am truest speaker! You call’d me brother,When I was but your sister: I you brothers,When we were so indeed.CYMBELINE.Did you e’er meet?ARVIRAGUS.Ay, my good lord.GUIDERIUS.And at first meeting lov’d,Continu’d so until we thought he died.CORNELIUS.By the Queen’s dram she swallow’d.CYMBELINE.O rare instinct!When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgementHath to it circumstantial branches, whichDistinction should be rich in. Where? how liv’d you?And when came you to serve our Roman captive?How parted with your brothers? how first met them?Why fled you from the court? and whither? These,And your three motives to the battle, withI know not how much more, should be demanded,And all the other by-dependances,From chance to chance; but nor the time nor placeWill serve our long interrogatories. See,Posthumus anchors upon Imogen;And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eyeOn him, her brothers, me, her master, hittingEach object with a joy; the counterchangeIs severally in all. Let’s quit this ground,And smoke the temple with our sacrifices.[To Belarius.] Thou art my brother; so we’ll hold thee ever.IMOGEN.You are my father too, and did relieve meTo see this gracious season.CYMBELINE.All o’erjoy’dSave these in bonds. Let them be joyful too,For they shall taste our comfort.IMOGEN.My good master,I will yet do you service.LUCIUS.Happy be you!CYMBELINE.The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought,He would have well becom’d this place and grac’dThe thankings of a king.POSTHUMUS.I am, sir,The soldier that did company these threeIn poor beseeming; ’twas a fitment forThe purpose I then follow’d. That I was he,Speak, Iachimo. I had you down, and mightHave made you finish.IACHIMO.[Kneeling.] I am down again;But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you,Which I so often owe; but your ring first,And here the bracelet of the truest princessThat ever swore her faith.POSTHUMUS.Kneel not to me.The pow’r that I have on you is to spare you;The malice towards you to forgive you. Live,And deal with others better.CYMBELINE.Nobly doom’d!We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law;Pardon’s the word to all.ARVIRAGUS.You holp us, sir,As you did mean indeed to be our brother;Joy’d are we that you are.POSTHUMUS.Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome,Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methoughtGreat Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d,Appear’d to me, with other spritely showsOf mine own kindred. When I wak’d, I foundThis label on my bosom; whose containingIs so from sense in hardness that I canMake no collection of it. Let him showHis skill in the construction.LUCIUS.Philarmonus!SOOTHSAYER.Here, my good lord.LUCIUS.Read, and declare the meaning.SOOTHSAYER.[Reads.]When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.Thou, Leonatus, art the lion’s whelp;The fit and apt construction of thy name,Being Leo-natus, doth import so much.[To Cymbeline] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter,Which we callmollis aer, andmollis aerWe term itmulier; whichmulierI divineIs this most constant wife, who even nowAnswering the letter of the oracle,Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp’d aboutWith this most tender air.CYMBELINE.This hath some seeming.SOOTHSAYER.The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,Personates thee; and thy lopp’d branches pointThy two sons forth, who, by Belarius stol’n,For many years thought dead, are now reviv’d,To the majestic cedar join’d, whose issuePromises Britain peace and plenty.CYMBELINE.Well,My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius,Although the victor, we submit to CæsarAnd to the Roman empire, promisingTo pay our wonted tribute, from the whichWe were dissuaded by our wicked queen,Whom heavens in justice, both on her and hers,Have laid most heavy hand.SOOTHSAYER.The fingers of the pow’rs above do tuneThe harmony of this peace. The visionWhich I made known to Lucius ere the strokeOf yet this scarce-cold battle, at this instantIs full accomplish’d; for the Roman eagle,From south to west on wing soaring aloft,Lessen’d herself and in the beams o’ th’ sunSo vanish’d; which foreshow’d our princely eagle,Th’ imperial Cæsar, should again uniteHis favour with the radiant Cymbeline,Which shines here in the west.CYMBELINE.Laud we the gods;And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrilsFrom our bless’d altars. Publish we this peaceTo all our subjects. Set we forward; letA Roman and a British ensign waveFriendly together. So through Lud’s Town march;And in the temple of great JupiterOur peace we’ll ratify; seal it with feasts.Set on there! Never was a war did cease,Ere bloody hands were wash’d, with such a peace.[Exeunt.]
EnterPosthumusalone, with a bloody handkerchief.
POSTHUMUS.Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee; for I wish’dThou shouldst be colour’d thus. You married ones,If each of you should take this course, how manyMust murder wives much better than themselvesFor wrying but a little! O Pisanio!Every good servant does not all commands;No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if youShould have ta’en vengeance on my faults, I neverHad liv’d to put on this; so had you savedThe noble Imogen to repent, and struckMe, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack,You snatch some hence for little faults; that’s love,To have them fall no more. You some permitTo second ills with ills, each elder worse,And make them dread it, to the doers’ thrift.But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills,And make me blest to obey. I am brought hitherAmong th’ Italian gentry, and to fightAgainst my lady’s kingdom. ’Tis enoughThat, Britain, I have kill’d thy mistress; peace!I’ll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens,Hear patiently my purpose. I’ll disrobe meOf these Italian weeds, and suit myselfAs does a Britain peasant. So I’ll fightAgainst the part I come with; so I’ll dieFor thee, O Imogen, even for whom my lifeIs every breath a death. And thus unknown,Pitied nor hated, to the face of perilMyself I’ll dedicate. Let me make men knowMore valour in me than my habits show.Gods, put the strength o’ th’ Leonati in me!To shame the guise o’ th’ world, I will beginThe fashion less without and more within.
[Exit.]
EnterLucius, Iachimoand the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another,Leonatus Posthumusfollowing like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish,IachimoandPosthumus.He vanquisheth and disarmethIachimoand then leaves him.
IACHIMO.The heaviness and guilt within my bosomTakes off my manhood. I have belied a lady,The Princess of this country, and the air on’tRevengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl,A very drudge of nature’s, have subdu’d meIn my profession? Knighthoods and honours borneAs I wear mine are titles but of scorn.If that thy gentry, Britain, go beforeThis lout as he exceeds our lords, the oddsIs that we scarce are men, and you are gods.
[Exit.]
The battle continues; the Britons fly;Cymbelineis taken. Then enter to his rescueBelarius, GuideriusandArviragus.
BELARIUS.Stand, stand! We have th’ advantage of the ground;The lane is guarded; nothing routs us butThe villainy of our fears.
GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS.Stand, stand, and fight!
EnterPosthumusand seconds the Britons; they rescueCymbelineand exeunt. Then re-enterLuciusandIachimowithImogen.
LUCIUS.Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself;For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s suchAs war were hoodwink’d.
IACHIMO.’Tis their fresh supplies.
LUCIUS.It is a day turn’d strangely. Or betimesLet’s reinforce or fly.
[Exeunt.]
EnterPosthumusand a BritonLord.
LORD.Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?
POSTHUMUS.I did:Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.
LORD.I did.
POSTHUMUS.No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost,But that the heavens fought. The King himselfOf his wings destitute, the army broken,And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying,Through a strait lane; the enemy, full-hearted,Lolling the tongue with slaught’ring, having workMore plentiful than tools to do’t, struck downSome mortally, some slightly touch’d, some fallingMerely through fear, that the strait pass was damm’dWith dead men hurt behind, and cowards livingTo die with length’ned shame.
LORD.Where was this lane?
POSTHUMUS.Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf,Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,An honest one, I warrant, who deserv’dSo long a breeding as his white beard came to,In doing this for’s country. Athwart the laneHe, with two striplings (lads more like to runThe country base than to commit such slaughter;With faces fit for masks, or rather fairerThan those for preservation cas’d or shame)Made good the passage, cried to those that fled‘Our Britain’s harts die flying, not our men.To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand;Or we are Romans and will give you that,Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may saveBut to look back in frown. Stand, stand!’ These three,Three thousand confident, in act as many—For three performers are the file when allThe rest do nothing—with this word ‘Stand, stand!’Accommodated by the place, more charmingWith their own nobleness, which could have turn’dA distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks,Part shame, part spirit renew’d; that some turn’d cowardBut by example (O, a sin in warDamn’d in the first beginners) ’gan to lookThe way that they did and to grin like lionsUpon the pikes o’ th’ hunters. Then beganA stop i’ th’ chaser, a retire; anonA rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly,Chickens, the way which they stoop’d eagles; slaves,The strides they victors made; and now our cowards,Like fragments in hard voyages, becameThe life o’ th’ need. Having found the back-door openOf the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound!Some slain before, some dying, some their friendsO’erborne i’ th’ former wave. Ten chas’d by oneAre now each one the slaughterman of twenty.Those that would die or ere resist are grownThe mortal bugs o’ th’ field.
LORD.This was strange chance:A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.
POSTHUMUS.Nay, do not wonder at it; you are madeRather to wonder at the things you hearThan to work any. Will you rhyme upon’t,And vent it for a mock’ry? Here is one:
‘Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane,Preserv’d the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’
LORD.Nay, be not angry, sir.
POSTHUMUS.’Lack, to what end?Who dares not stand his foe I’ll be his friend;For if he’ll do as he is made to do,I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too.You have put me into rhyme.
LORD.Farewell; you’re angry.
[Exit.]
POSTHUMUS.Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery,To be i’ th’ field and ask ‘What news?’ of me!Today how many would have given their honoursTo have sav’d their carcasses! took heel to do’t,And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d,Could not find death where I did hear him groan,Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster,’Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than weThat draw his knives i’ th’ war. Well, I will find him;For being now a favourer to the Briton,No more a Briton, I have resum’d againThe part I came in. Fight I will no more,But yield me to the veriest hind that shallOnce touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter isHere made by th’ Roman; great the answer beBritons must take. For me, my ransom’s death;On either side I come to spend my breath,Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear again,But end it by some means for Imogen.
Enter two BritishCaptainsand soldiers.
FIRST CAPTAIN.Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken.’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.
SECOND CAPTAIN.There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,That gave th’ affront with them.
FIRST CAPTAIN.So ’tis reported;But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there?
POSTHUMUS.A Roman,Who had not now been drooping here if secondsHad answer’d him.
SECOND CAPTAIN.Lay hands on him; a dog!A leg of Rome shall not return to tellWhat crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service,As if he were of note. Bring him to th’ King.
EnterCymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanioand Roman captives. TheCaptainspresentPosthumus toCymbeline,who delivers him over to a gaoler.
[Exeunt omnes.]
EnterPosthumusand twoGaolers.
FIRST GAOLER. You shall not now be stol’n, you have locks upon you;So graze as you find pasture.
SECOND GAOLER.Ay, or a stomach.
[ExeuntGaolers.]
POSTHUMUS.Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way,I think, to liberty. Yet am I betterThan one that’s sick o’ th’ gout, since he had ratherGroan so in perpetuity than be cur’dBy th’ sure physician death, who is the keyT’ unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter’dMore than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give meThe penitent instrument to pick that bolt,Then, free for ever! Is’t enough I am sorry?So children temporal fathers do appease;Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent,I cannot do it better than in gyves,Desir’d more than constrain’d. To satisfy,If of my freedom ’tis the main part, takeNo stricter render of me than my all.I know you are more clement than vile men,Who of their broken debtors take a third,A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive againOn their abatement; that’s not my desire.For Imogen’s dear life take mine; and though’Tis not so dear, yet ’tis a life; you coin’d it.’Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp;Though light, take pieces for the figure’s sake;You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow’rs,If you will take this audit, take this life,And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen!I’ll speak to thee in silence.
[Sleeps.]
Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition,Sicilius Leonatus,father toPosthumus,an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his wife andMothertoPosthumus,with music before them. Then, after other music, follows the two youngLeonati,brothers toPosthumus,with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circlePosthumusround as he lies sleeping.
SICILIUS.No more, thou thunder-master, showThy spite on mortal flies.With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,That thy adulteriesRates and revenges.Hath my poor boy done aught but well,Whose face I never saw?I died whilst in the womb he stay’dAttending nature’s law;Whose father then, as men reportThou orphans’ father art,Thou shouldst have been, and shielded himFrom this earth-vexing smart.
MOTHER.Lucina lent not me her aid,But took me in my throes,That from me was Posthumus ripp’d,Came crying ’mongst his foes,A thing of pity.
SICILIUS.Great Nature like his ancestryMoulded the stuff so fairThat he deserv’d the praise o’ th’ worldAs great Sicilius’ heir.
FIRST BROTHER.When once he was mature for man,In Britain where was heThat could stand up his parallel,Or fruitful object beIn eye of Imogen, that bestCould deem his dignity?
MOTHER.With marriage wherefore was he mock’d,To be exil’d and thrownFrom Leonati seat and castFrom her his dearest one,Sweet Imogen?
SICILIUS.Why did you suffer Iachimo,Slight thing of Italy,To taint his nobler heart and brainWith needless jealousy,And to become the geck and scornO’ th’ other’s villainy?
SECOND BROTHER.For this from stiller seats we came,Our parents and us twain,That, striking in our country’s cause,Fell bravely and were slain,Our fealty and Tenantius’ rightWith honour to maintain.
FIRST BROTHER.Like hardiment Posthumus hathTo Cymbeline perform’d.Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods,Why hast thou thus adjourn’dThe graces for his merits due,Being all to dolours turn’d?
SICILIUS.Thy crystal window ope; look out;No longer exerciseUpon a valiant race thy harshAnd potent injuries.
MOTHER.Since, Jupiter, our son is good,Take off his miseries.
SICILIUS.Peep through thy marble mansion. Help!Or we poor ghosts will cryTo th’ shining synod of the restAgainst thy deity.
BROTHERS.Help, Jupiter! or we appeal,And from thy justice fly.
Jupiterdescends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. TheGhostsfall on their knees.
JUPITER.No more, you petty spirits of region low,Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghostsAccuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know,Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts?Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and restUpon your never-withering banks of flow’rs.Be not with mortal accidents opprest:No care of yours it is; you know ’tis ours.Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift,The more delay’d, delighted. Be content;Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift;His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.Our Jovial star reign’d at his birth, and inOur temple was he married. Rise and fade!He shall be lord of Lady Imogen,And happier much by his affliction made.This tablet lay upon his breast, whereinOur pleasure his full fortune doth confine;And so, away; no farther with your dinExpress impatience, lest you stir up mine.Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.
[Ascends.]
SICILIUS.He came in thunder; his celestial breathWas sulphurous to smell; the holy eagleStoop’d as to foot us. His ascension isMore sweet than our blest fields. His royal birdPrunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak,As when his god is pleas’d.
ALL.Thanks, Jupiter!
SICILIUS.The marble pavement closes, he is enter’dHis radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest,Let us with care perform his great behest.
[Ghostsvanish.]
POSTHUMUS.[Waking.] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begotA father to me; and thou hast createdA mother and two brothers. But, O scorn,Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born.And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that dependOn greatness’ favour, dream as I have done;Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve;Many dream not to find, neither deserve,And yet are steep’d in favours; so am I,That have this golden chance, and know not why.What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one!Be not, as is our fangled world, a garmentNobler than that it covers. Let thy effectsSo follow to be most unlike our courtiers,As good as promise.
[Reads.]When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.
’Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmenTongue, and brain not; either both or nothing,Or senseless speaking, or a speaking suchAs sense cannot untie. Be what it is,The action of my life is like it, whichI’ll keep, if but for sympathy.
EnterGaoler.
GAOLER.Come, sir, are you ready for death?
POSTHUMUS.Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.
GAOLER.Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook’d.
POSTHUMUS.So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.
GAOLER.A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows.
POSTHUMUS.I am merrier to die than thou art to live.
GAOLER.Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.
POSTHUMUS.Yes indeed do I, fellow.
GAOLER.Your death has eyes in’s head, then; I have not seen him so pictur’d. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journey’s end, I think you’ll never return to tell one.
POSTHUMUS.I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them.
GAOLER.What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of winking.
Enter aMessenger.
MESSENGER.Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King.
POSTHUMUS.Thou bring’st good news: I am call’d to be made free.
GAOLER.I’ll be hang’d then.
POSTHUMUS.Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.
[ExeuntPosthumusandMessenger.]
GAOLER.Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in’t.
[Exit.]
EnterCymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, Lords, Officersand Attendants.
CYMBELINE.Stand by my side, you whom the gods have madePreservers of my throne. Woe is my heartThat the poor soldier that so richly fought,Whose rags sham’d gilded arms, whose naked breastStepp’d before targes of proof, cannot be found.He shall be happy that can find him, ifOur grace can make him so.
BELARIUS.I never sawSuch noble fury in so poor a thing;Such precious deeds in one that promis’d noughtBut beggary and poor looks.
CYMBELINE.No tidings of him?
PISANIO.He hath been search’d among the dead and living,But no trace of him.
CYMBELINE.To my grief, I amThe heir of his reward, [To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus] which I will addTo you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain,By whom I grant she lives. ’Tis now the timeTo ask of whence you are. Report it.
BELARIUS.Sir,In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen;Further to boast were neither true nor modest,Unless I add we are honest.
CYMBELINE.Bow your knees.Arise my knights o’ th’ battle; I create youCompanions to our person, and will fit youWith dignities becoming your estates.
EnterCorneliusandLadies.
There’s business in these faces. Why so sadlyGreet you our victory? You look like Romans,And not o’ th’ court of Britain.
CORNELIUS.Hail, great King!To sour your happiness I must reportThe Queen is dead.
CYMBELINE.Who worse than a physicianWould this report become? But I considerBy med’cine life may be prolong’d, yet deathWill seize the doctor too. How ended she?
CORNELIUS.With horror, madly dying, like her life;Which, being cruel to the world, concludedMost cruel to herself. What she confess’dI will report, so please you; these her womenCan trip me if I err, who with wet cheeksWere present when she finish’d.
CYMBELINE.Prithee say.
CORNELIUS.First, she confess’d she never lov’d you; onlyAffected greatness got by you, not you;Married your royalty, was wife to your place;Abhorr’d your person.
CYMBELINE.She alone knew this;And but she spoke it dying, I would notBelieve her lips in opening it. Proceed.
CORNELIUS.Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to loveWith such integrity, she did confessWas as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,But that her flight prevented it, she hadTa’en off by poison.
CYMBELINE.O most delicate fiend!Who is’t can read a woman? Is there more?
CORNELIUS.More, sir, and worse. She did confess she hadFor you a mortal mineral, which, being took,Should by the minute feed on life, and ling’ring,By inches waste you. In which time she purpos’d,By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, toO’ercome you with her show; and in time,When she had fitted you with her craft, to workHer son into th’ adoption of the crown;But failing of her end by his strange absence,Grew shameless-desperate, open’d, in despiteOf heaven and men, her purposes, repentedThe evils she hatch’d were not effected; so,Despairing, died.
CYMBELINE.Heard you all this, her women?
LADIES.We did, so please your Highness.
CYMBELINE.Mine eyesWere not in fault, for she was beautiful;Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heartThat thought her like her seeming. It had been viciousTo have mistrusted her; yet, O my daughter!That it was folly in me thou mayst say,And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!
EnterLucius, Iachimo,theSoothsayerand other Roman prisoners, guarded;Posthumusbehind, andImogen.
Thou com’st not, Caius, now for tribute; thatThe Britons have raz’d out, though with the lossOf many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made suitThat their good souls may be appeas’d with slaughterOf you their captives, which ourself have granted;So think of your estate.
LUCIUS.Consider, sir, the chance of war. The dayWas yours by accident; had it gone with us,We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten’dOur prisoners with the sword. But since the godsWill have it thus, that nothing but our livesMay be call’d ransom, let it come. SufficethA Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer.Augustus lives to think on’t; and so muchFor my peculiar care. This one thing onlyI will entreat: my boy, a Briton born,Let him be ransom’d. Never master hadA page so kind, so duteous, diligent,So tender over his occasions, true,So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue joinWith my request, which I’ll make bold your HighnessCannot deny; he hath done no Briton harmThough he have serv’d a Roman. Save him, sir,And spare no blood beside.
CYMBELINE.I have surely seen him;His favour is familiar to me. Boy,Thou hast look’d thyself into my grace,And art mine own. I know not why, whereforeTo say “Live, boy.” Ne’er thank thy master. Live;And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,Fitting my bounty and thy state, I’ll give it;Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner,The noblest ta’en.
IMOGEN.I humbly thank your Highness.
LUCIUS.I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad,And yet I know thou wilt.
IMOGEN.No, no! Alack,There’s other work in hand. I see a thingBitter to me as death; your life, good master,Must shuffle for itself.
LUCIUS.The boy disdains me,He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joysThat place them on the truth of girls and boys.Why stands he so perplex’d?
CYMBELINE.What wouldst thou, boy?I love thee more and more; think more and moreWhat’s best to ask. Know’st him thou look’st on? Speak,Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?
IMOGEN.He is a Roman, no more kin to meThan I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal,Am something nearer.
CYMBELINE.Wherefore ey’st him so?
IMOGEN.I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you pleaseTo give me hearing.
CYMBELINE.Ay, with all my heart,And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?
IMOGEN.Fidele, sir.
CYMBELINE.Thou’rt my good youth, my page;I’ll be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely.
[Cymbeline and Imogen converse apart.]
BELARIUS.Is not this boy reviv’d from death?
ARVIRAGUS.One sand anotherNot more resembles that sweet rosy ladWho died and was Fidele. What think you?
GUIDERIUS.The same dead thing alive.
BELARIUS.Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear.Creatures may be alike; were’t he, I am sureHe would have spoke to us.
GUIDERIUS.But we see him dead.
BELARIUS.Be silent; let’s see further.
PISANIO.[Aside.] It is my mistress.Since she is living, let the time run onTo good or bad.
[Cymbeline and Imogen advance.]
CYMBELINE.Come, stand thou by our side;Make thy demand aloud. [To Iachimo.] Sir, step you forth;Give answer to this boy, and do it freely,Or, by our greatness and the grace of it,Which is our honour, bitter torture shallWinnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him.
IMOGEN.My boon is that this gentleman may renderOf whom he had this ring.
POSTHUMUS.[Aside.] What’s that to him?
CYMBELINE.That diamond upon your finger, sayHow came it yours?
IACHIMO.Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken thatWhich to be spoke would torture thee.
CYMBELINE.How? me?
IACHIMO.I am glad to be constrain’d to utter thatWhich torments me to conceal. By villainyI got this ring; ’twas Leonatus’ jewel,Whom thou didst banish; and—which more may grieve thee,As it doth me—a nobler sir ne’er liv’d’Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?
CYMBELINE.All that belongs to this.
IACHIMO.That paragon, thy daughter,For whom my heart drops blood and my false spiritsQuail to remember—Give me leave, I faint.
CYMBELINE.My daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength;I had rather thou shouldst live while nature willThan die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak.
IACHIMO.Upon a time, unhappy was the clockThat struck the hour: was in Rome, accurs’dThe mansion where: ’twas at a feast, O, wouldOur viands had been poison’d (or at leastThose which I heav’d to head) the good Posthumus(What should I say? he was too good to beWhere ill men were, and was the best of allAmongst the rar’st of good ones) sitting sadlyHearing us praise our loves of ItalyFor beauty that made barren the swell’d boastOf him that best could speak; for feature, lamingThe shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva,Postures beyond brief nature; for condition,A shop of all the qualities that manLoves woman for; besides that hook of wiving,Fairness which strikes the eye.
CYMBELINE.I stand on fire.Come to the matter.
IACHIMO.All too soon I shall,Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus,Most like a noble lord in love and oneThat had a royal lover, took his hint;And (not dispraising whom we prais’d, thereinHe was as calm as virtue) he beganHis mistress’ picture; which by his tongue being made,And then a mind put in’t, either our bragsWere crack’d of kitchen trulls, or his descriptionProv’d us unspeaking sots.
CYMBELINE.Nay, nay, to th’ purpose.
IACHIMO.Your daughter’s chastity (there it begins)He spake of her as Dian had hot dreamsAnd she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch,Made scruple of his praise, and wager’d with himPieces of gold ’gainst this which then he woreUpon his honour’d finger, to attainIn suit the place of’s bed, and win this ringBy hers and mine adultery. He, true knight,No lesser of her honour confidentThan I did truly find her, stakes this ring;And would so, had it been a carbuncleOf Phoebus’ wheel; and might so safely, had itBeen all the worth of’s car. Away to BritainPost I in this design. Well may you, sir,Remember me at court, where I was taughtOf your chaste daughter the wide difference’Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quench’dOf hope, not longing, mine Italian brainGan in your duller Britain operateMost vilely; for my vantage, excellent;And, to be brief, my practice so prevail’dThat I return’d with simular proof enoughTo make the noble Leonatus mad,By wounding his belief in her renownWith tokens thus and thus; averring notesOf chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet(O cunning, how I got it!) nay, some marksOf secret on her person, that he could notBut think her bond of chastity quite crack’d,I having ta’en the forfeit. WhereuponMethinks I see him now—
POSTHUMUS.[Coming forward.] Ay, so thou dost,Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,Egregious murderer, thief, anythingThat’s due to all the villains past, in being,To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send outFor torturers ingenious. It is IThat all th’ abhorred things o’ th’ earth amendBy being worse than they. I am Posthumus,That kill’d thy daughter; villain-like, I lie;That caus’d a lesser villain than myself,A sacrilegious thief, to do’t. The templeOf virtue was she; yea, and she herself.Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, setThe dogs o’ th’ street to bay me. Every villainBe call’d Posthumus Leonatus, andBe villainy less than ’twas! O Imogen!My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,Imogen, Imogen!
IMOGEN.Peace, my lord. Hear, hear!
POSTHUMUS.Shall’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page,There lies thy part.
[Strikes her. She falls.]
PISANIO.O gentlemen, help!Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus!You ne’er kill’d Imogen till now. Help, help!Mine honour’d lady!
CYMBELINE.Does the world go round?
POSTHUMUS.How comes these staggers on me?
PISANIO.Wake, my mistress!
CYMBELINE.If this be so, the gods do mean to strike meTo death with mortal joy.
PISANIO.How fares my mistress?
IMOGEN.O, get thee from my sight;Thou gav’st me poison. Dangerous fellow, hence!Breathe not where princes are.
CYMBELINE.The tune of Imogen!
PISANIO.Lady,The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, ifThat box I gave you was not thought by meA precious thing! I had it from the Queen.
CYMBELINE.New matter still?
IMOGEN.It poison’d me.
CORNELIUS.O gods!I left out one thing which the Queen confess’d,Which must approve thee honest. ‘If PisanioHave’ said she ‘given his mistress that confectionWhich I gave him for cordial, she is serv’dAs I would serve a rat.’
CYMBELINE.What’s this, Cornelius?
CORNELIUS.The Queen, sir, very oft importun’d meTo temper poisons for her; still pretendingThe satisfaction of her knowledge onlyIn killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs,Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purposeWas of more danger, did compound for herA certain stuff, which, being ta’en would ceaseThe present pow’r of life, but in short timeAll offices of nature should againDo their due functions. Have you ta’en of it?
IMOGEN.Most like I did, for I was dead.
BELARIUS.My boys,There was our error.
GUIDERIUS.This is sure Fidele.
IMOGEN.Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?Think that you are upon a rock, and nowThrow me again.
[Embracing him.]
POSTHUMUS.Hang there like fruit, my soul,Till the tree die!
CYMBELINE.How now, my flesh? my child?What, mak’st thou me a dullard in this act?Wilt thou not speak to me?
IMOGEN.[Kneeling.] Your blessing, sir.
BELARIUS.[To Guiderius and Arviragus.] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not;You had a motive for’t.
CYMBELINE.My tears that fallProve holy water on thee! Imogen,Thy mother’s dead.
IMOGEN.I am sorry for’t, my lord.
CYMBELINE.O, she was naught, and long of her it wasThat we meet here so strangely; but her sonIs gone, we know not how nor where.
PISANIO.My lord,Now fear is from me, I’ll speak troth. Lord Cloten,Upon my lady’s missing, came to meWith his sword drawn, foam’d at the mouth, and swore,If I discover’d not which way she was gone,It was my instant death. By accidentI had a feigned letter of my master’sThen in my pocket, which directed himTo seek her on the mountains near to Milford;Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments,Which he enforc’d from me, away he postsWith unchaste purpose, and with oath to violateMy lady’s honour. What became of himI further know not.
GUIDERIUS.Let me end the story:I slew him there.
CYMBELINE.Marry, the gods forfend!I would not thy good deeds should from my lipsPluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth,Deny’t again.
GUIDERIUS.I have spoke it, and I did it.
CYMBELINE.He was a prince.
GUIDERIUS.A most incivil one. The wrongs he did meWere nothing prince-like; for he did provoke meWith language that would make me spurn the sea,If it could so roar to me. I cut off’s head,And am right glad he is not standing hereTo tell this tale of mine.
CYMBELINE.I am sorry for thee.By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and mustEndure our law. Thou’rt dead.
IMOGEN.That headless manI thought had been my lord.
CYMBELINE.Bind the offender,And take him from our presence.
BELARIUS.Stay, sir King.This man is better than the man he slew,As well descended as thyself, and hathMore of thee merited than a band of ClotensHad ever scar for. [To the guard.] Let his arms alone;They were not born for bondage.
CYMBELINE.Why, old soldier,Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid forBy tasting of our wrath? How of descentAs good as we?
ARVIRAGUS.In that he spake too far.
CYMBELINE.And thou shalt die for’t.
BELARIUS.We will die all three;But I will prove that two on’s are as goodAs I have given out him. My sons, I mustFor mine own part unfold a dangerous speech,Though haply well for you.
ARVIRAGUS.Your danger’s ours.
GUIDERIUS.And our good his.
BELARIUS.Have at it then by leave!Thou hadst, great King, a subject whoWas call’d Belarius.
CYMBELINE.What of him? He isA banish’d traitor.
BELARIUS.He it is that hathAssum’d this age; indeed a banish’d man;I know not how a traitor.
CYMBELINE.Take him hence,The whole world shall not save him.
BELARIUS.Not too hot.First pay me for the nursing of thy sons,And let it be confiscate all, so soonAs I have receiv’d it.
CYMBELINE.Nursing of my sons?
BELARIUS.I am too blunt and saucy: here’s my knee.Ere I arise I will prefer my sons;Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir,These two young gentlemen that call me father,And think they are my sons, are none of mine;They are the issue of your loins, my liege,And blood of your begetting.
CYMBELINE.How? my issue?
BELARIUS.So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan,Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d.Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishmentItself, and all my treason; that I suffer’dWas all the harm I did. These gentle princes(For such and so they are) these twenty yearsHave I train’d up; those arts they have as ICould put into them. My breeding was, sir, asYour Highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile,Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these childrenUpon my banishment; I mov’d her to’t,Having receiv’d the punishment beforeFor that which I did then. Beaten for loyaltyExcited me to treason. Their dear loss,The more of you ’twas felt, the more it shap’dUnto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir,Here are your sons again, and I must loseTwo of the sweet’st companions in the world.The benediction of these covering heavensFall on their heads like dew! for they are worthyTo inlay heaven with stars.
CYMBELINE.Thou weep’st and speak’st.The service that you three have done is moreUnlike than this thou tell’st. I lost my children.If these be they, I know not how to wishA pair of worthier sons.
BELARIUS.Be pleas’d awhile.This gentleman, whom I call Polydore,Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius;This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus,Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp’dIn a most curious mantle, wrought by th’ handOf his queen mother, which for more probationI can with ease produce.
CYMBELINE.Guiderius hadUpon his neck a mole, a sanguine star;It was a mark of wonder.
BELARIUS.This is he,Who hath upon him still that natural stamp.It was wise nature’s end in the donation,To be his evidence now.
CYMBELINE.O, what am I?A mother to the birth of three? Ne’er motherRejoic’d deliverance more. Blest pray you be,That, after this strange starting from your orbs,You may reign in them now! O Imogen,Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.
IMOGEN.No, my lord;I have got two worlds by’t. O my gentle brothers,Have we thus met? O, never say hereafterBut I am truest speaker! You call’d me brother,When I was but your sister: I you brothers,When we were so indeed.
CYMBELINE.Did you e’er meet?
ARVIRAGUS.Ay, my good lord.
GUIDERIUS.And at first meeting lov’d,Continu’d so until we thought he died.
CORNELIUS.By the Queen’s dram she swallow’d.
CYMBELINE.O rare instinct!When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgementHath to it circumstantial branches, whichDistinction should be rich in. Where? how liv’d you?And when came you to serve our Roman captive?How parted with your brothers? how first met them?Why fled you from the court? and whither? These,And your three motives to the battle, withI know not how much more, should be demanded,And all the other by-dependances,From chance to chance; but nor the time nor placeWill serve our long interrogatories. See,Posthumus anchors upon Imogen;And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eyeOn him, her brothers, me, her master, hittingEach object with a joy; the counterchangeIs severally in all. Let’s quit this ground,And smoke the temple with our sacrifices.[To Belarius.] Thou art my brother; so we’ll hold thee ever.
IMOGEN.You are my father too, and did relieve meTo see this gracious season.
CYMBELINE.All o’erjoy’dSave these in bonds. Let them be joyful too,For they shall taste our comfort.
IMOGEN.My good master,I will yet do you service.
LUCIUS.Happy be you!
CYMBELINE.The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought,He would have well becom’d this place and grac’dThe thankings of a king.
POSTHUMUS.I am, sir,The soldier that did company these threeIn poor beseeming; ’twas a fitment forThe purpose I then follow’d. That I was he,Speak, Iachimo. I had you down, and mightHave made you finish.
IACHIMO.[Kneeling.] I am down again;But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you,Which I so often owe; but your ring first,And here the bracelet of the truest princessThat ever swore her faith.
POSTHUMUS.Kneel not to me.The pow’r that I have on you is to spare you;The malice towards you to forgive you. Live,And deal with others better.
CYMBELINE.Nobly doom’d!We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law;Pardon’s the word to all.
ARVIRAGUS.You holp us, sir,As you did mean indeed to be our brother;Joy’d are we that you are.
POSTHUMUS.Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome,Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methoughtGreat Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d,Appear’d to me, with other spritely showsOf mine own kindred. When I wak’d, I foundThis label on my bosom; whose containingIs so from sense in hardness that I canMake no collection of it. Let him showHis skill in the construction.
LUCIUS.Philarmonus!
SOOTHSAYER.Here, my good lord.
LUCIUS.Read, and declare the meaning.
SOOTHSAYER.[Reads.]When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.Thou, Leonatus, art the lion’s whelp;The fit and apt construction of thy name,Being Leo-natus, doth import so much.[To Cymbeline] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter,Which we callmollis aer, andmollis aerWe term itmulier; whichmulierI divineIs this most constant wife, who even nowAnswering the letter of the oracle,Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp’d aboutWith this most tender air.
CYMBELINE.This hath some seeming.
SOOTHSAYER.The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,Personates thee; and thy lopp’d branches pointThy two sons forth, who, by Belarius stol’n,For many years thought dead, are now reviv’d,To the majestic cedar join’d, whose issuePromises Britain peace and plenty.
CYMBELINE.Well,My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius,Although the victor, we submit to CæsarAnd to the Roman empire, promisingTo pay our wonted tribute, from the whichWe were dissuaded by our wicked queen,Whom heavens in justice, both on her and hers,Have laid most heavy hand.
SOOTHSAYER.The fingers of the pow’rs above do tuneThe harmony of this peace. The visionWhich I made known to Lucius ere the strokeOf yet this scarce-cold battle, at this instantIs full accomplish’d; for the Roman eagle,From south to west on wing soaring aloft,Lessen’d herself and in the beams o’ th’ sunSo vanish’d; which foreshow’d our princely eagle,Th’ imperial Cæsar, should again uniteHis favour with the radiant Cymbeline,Which shines here in the west.
CYMBELINE.Laud we the gods;And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrilsFrom our bless’d altars. Publish we this peaceTo all our subjects. Set we forward; letA Roman and a British ensign waveFriendly together. So through Lud’s Town march;And in the temple of great JupiterOur peace we’ll ratify; seal it with feasts.Set on there! Never was a war did cease,Ere bloody hands were wash’d, with such a peace.
[Exeunt.]