Cymbeline

  Bel. A goodly day, not to keepe house with such,Whose Roofe's as lowe as ours: Sleepe Boyes, this gateInstructs you how t' adore the Heauens; and bowes youTo a mornings holy office. The Gates of MonarchesAre Arch'd so high, that Giants may iet throughAnd keepe their impious Turbonds on, withoutGood morrow to the Sun. Haile thou faire Heauen,We house i'th' Rocke, yet vse thee not so hardlyAs prouder liuers doGuid. Haile HeauenAruir. Haile Heauen   Bela. Now for our Mountaine sport, vp to yond hillYour legges are yong: Ile tread these Flats. Consider,When you aboue perceiue me like a Crow,That it is Place, which lessen's, and sets off,And you may then reuolue what Tales, I haue told you,Of Courts, of Princes; of the Tricks in Warre.This Seruice, is not Seruice; so being done,But being so allowed. To apprehend thus,Drawes vs a profit from all things we see:And often to our comfort, shall we findeThe sharded-Beetle, in a safer holdThen is the full-wing'd Eagle. Oh this life,Is Nobler, then attending for a checke:Richer, then doing nothing for a Babe:Prouder, then rustling in vnpayd-for Silke:Such gaine the Cap of him, that makes him fine,Yet keepes his Booke vncros'd: no life to ours   Gui. Out of your proofe you speak: we poore vnfledg'dHaue neuer wing'd from view o'th' nest; nor knowes notWhat Ayre's from home. Hap'ly this life is best,(If quiet life be best) sweeter to youThat haue a sharper knowne. Well correspondingWith your stiffe Age; but vnto vs, it isA Cell of Ignorance: trauailing a bed,A Prison, or a Debtor, that not daresTo stride a limit   Arui. What should we speake ofWhen we are old as you? When we shall heareThe Raine and winde beate darke December? HowIn this our pinching Caue, shall we discourseThe freezing houres away? We haue seene nothing:We are beastly; subtle as the Fox for prey,Like warlike as the Wolfe, for what we eate:Our Valour is to chace what flyes: Our CageWe make a Quire, as doth the prison'd Bird,And sing our Bondage freely   Bel. How you speake.Did you but know the Citties Vsuries,And felt them knowingly: the Art o'th' Court,As hard to leaue, as keepe: whose top to climbeIs certaine falling: or so slipp'ry, thatThe feare's as bad as falling. The toyle o'th' Warre,A paine that onely seemes to seeke out dangerI'th' name of Fame, and Honor, which dyes i'th' search,And hath as oft a sland'rous Epitaph,As Record of faire Act. Nay, many timesDoth ill deserue, by doing well: what's worseMust curt'sie at the Censure. Oh Boyes, this StorieThe World may reade in me: My bodie's mark'dWith Roman Swords; and my report, was onceFirst, with the best of Note. Cymbeline lou'd me,And when a Souldier was the Theame, my nameWas not farre off: then was I as a TreeWhose boughes did bend with fruit. But in one night,A Storme, or Robbery (call it what you will)Shooke downe my mellow hangings: nay my Leaues,And left me bare to weatherGui. Vncertaine fauour   Bel. My fault being nothing (as I haue told you oft)But that two Villaines, whose false Oathes preuayl'dBefore my perfect Honor, swore to Cymbeline,I was Confederate with the Romanes: soFollowed my Banishment, and this twenty yeeres,This Rocke, and these Demesnes, haue bene my World,Where I haue liu'd at honest freedome, payedMore pious debts to Heauen, then in allThe fore-end of my time. But, vp to'th' Mountaines,This is not Hunters Language; he that strikesThe Venison first, shall be the Lord o'th' Feast,To him the other two shall minister,And we will feare no poyson, which attendsIn place of greater State:Ile meete you in the Valleyes.Exeunt.How hard it is to hide the sparkes of Nature?These Boyes know little they are Sonnes to'th' King,Nor Cymbeline dreames that they are aliue.They thinke they are mine,And though train'd vp thus meanelyI'th' Caue, whereon the Bowe their thoughts do hit,The Roofes of Palaces, and Nature prompts themIn simple and lowe things, to Prince it, muchBeyond the tricke of others. This Paladour,The heyre of Cymbeline and Britaine, whoThe King his Father call'd Guiderius. Ioue,When on my three-foot stoole I sit, and tellThe warlike feats I haue done, his spirits flye outInto my Story: say thus mine Enemy fell,And thus I set my foote on's necke, euen thenThe Princely blood flowes in his Cheeke, he sweats,Straines his yong Nerues, and puts himselfe in postureThat acts my words. The yonger Brother Cadwall,Once Aruiragus, in as like a figureStrikes life into my speech, and shewes much moreHis owne conceyuing. Hearke, the Game is rows'd,Oh Cymbeline, Heauen and my Conscience knowesThou didd'st vniustly banish me: whereonAt three, and two yeeres old, I stole these Babes,Thinking to barre thee of Succession, asThou refts me of my Lands. Euriphile,Thou was't their Nurse, they took thee for their mother,And euery day do honor to her graue:My selfe Belarius, that am Mergan call'dThey take for Naturall Father. The Game is vp.Enter.Scena Quarta

Enter Pisanio and Imogen.

  Imo. Thou told'st me when we came fro[m] horse, y placeWas neere at hand: Ne're long'd my Mother soTo see me first, as I haue now. Pisanio, Man:Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mindThat makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sighFrom th' inward of thee? One, but painted thusWould be interpreted a thing perplex'dBeyond selfe-explication. Put thy selfeInto a hauiour of lesse feare, ere wildnesseVanquish my stayder Senses. What's the matter?Why render'st thou that Paper to me, withA looke vntender? If't be Summer NewesSmile too't before: if Winterly, thou need'stBut keepe that count'nance stil. My Husbands hand?That Drug-damn'd Italy, hath out-craftied him,And hee's at some hard point. Speake man, thy TongueMay take off some extreamitie, which to readeWould be euen mortall to me   Pis. Please you reade,And you shall finde me (wretched man) a thingThe most disdain'd of FortuneImogen reades. Thy Mistris (Pisanio) hath plaide the Strumpet in my Bed: the Testimonies whereof, lyes bleeding in me. I speak not out of weake Surmises, but from proofe as strong as my greefe, and as certaine as I expect my Reuenge. That part, thou (Pisanio) must acte for me, if thy Faith be not tainted with the breach of hers; let thine owne hands take away her life: I shall giue thee opportunity at Milford Hauen. She hath my Letter for the purpose; where, if thou feare to strike, and to make mee certaine it is done, thou art the Pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyall   Pis. What shall I need to draw my Sword, the PaperHath cut her throat alreadie? No, 'tis Slander,Whose edge is sharper then the Sword, whose tongueOut-venomes all the Wormes of Nyle, whose breathRides on the posting windes, and doth belyeAll corners of the World. Kings, Queenes, and States,Maides, Matrons, nay the Secrets of the GraueThis viperous slander enters. What cheere, Madam?  Imo. False to his Bed? What is it to be false?To lye in watch there, and to thinke on him?To weepe 'twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge Nature,To breake it with a fearfull dreame of him,And cry my selfe awake? That's false to's bed? Is it?  Pisa. Alas good Lady   Imo. I false? Thy Conscience witnesse: Iachimo,Thou didd'st accuse him of Incontinencie,Thou then look'dst like a Villaine: now, me thinkesThy fauours good enough. Some Iay of Italy(Whose mother was her painting) hath betraid him:Poore I am stale, a Garment out of fashion,And for I am richer then to hang by th' walles,I must be ript: To peeces with me: Oh!Mens Vowes are womens Traitors. All good seemingBy thy reuolt (oh Husband) shall be thoughtPut on for Villainy; not borne where't growes,But worne a Baite for LadiesPisa. Good Madam, heare me   Imo. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas,Were in his time thought false: and Synons weepingDid scandall many a holy teare: tooke pittyFrom most true wretchednesse. So thou, PosthumusWilt lay the Leauen on all proper men;Goodly, and gallant, shall be false and periur'dFrom thy great faile: Come Fellow, be thou honest,Do thou thy Masters bidding. When thou seest him,A little witnesse my obedience. LookeI draw the Sword my selfe, take it, and hitThe innocent Mansion of my Loue (my Heart:)Feare not, 'tis empty of all things, but Greefe:Thy Master is not there, who was indeedeThe riches of it. Do his bidding, strike,Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause;But now thou seem'st a Coward   Pis. Hence vile Instrument,Thou shalt not damne my hand   Imo. Why, I must dye:And if I do not by thy hand, thou artNo Seruant of thy Masters. Against Selfe-slaughter,There is a prohibition so Diuine,That crauens my weake hand: Come, heere's my heart:Something's a-foot: Soft, soft, wee'l no defence,Obedient as the Scabbard. What is heere,The Scriptures of the Loyall Leonatus,All turn'd to Heresie? Away, awayCorrupters of my Faith, you shall no moreBe Stomachers to my heart: thus may pooru FoolesBeleeue false Teachers: Though those that are betraidDo feele the Treason sharpely, yet the TraitorStands in worse case of woe. And thou Posthumus,That didd'st set vp my disobedience 'gainst the KingMy Father, and makes me put into contempt the suitesOf Princely Fellowes, shalt heereafter findeIt is no acte of common passage, butA straine of Rarenesse: and I greeue my selfe,To thinke, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her,That now thou tyrest on, how thy memoryWill then be pang'd by me. Prythee dispatch,The Lambe entreats the Butcher. Wher's thy knife?Thou art too slow to do thy Masters biddingWhen I desire it too   Pis. Oh gracious Lady:Since I receiu'd command to do this businesse,I haue not slept one winkeImo. Doo't, and to bed thenPis. Ile wake mine eye-balles first   Imo. Wherefore thenDidd'st vndertake it? Why hast thou abus'dSo many Miles, with a pretence? This place?Mine Action? and thine owne? Our Horses labour?The Time inuiting thee? The perturb'd CourtFor my being absent? whereunto I neuerPurpose returne. Why hast thou gone so farreTo be vn-bent? when thou hast 'tane thy stand,Th' elected Deere before thee?  Pis. But to win timeTo loose so bad employment, in the whichI haue consider'd of a course: good LadieHeare me with patience   Imo. Talke thy tongue weary, speake:I haue heard I am a Strumpet, and mine eareTherein false strooke, can take no greater wound,Nor tent, to bottome that. But speake   Pis. Then Madam,I thought you would not backe againe   Imo. Most like,Bringing me heere to kill me   Pis. Not so neither:But if I were as wise, as honest, thenMy purpose would proue well: it cannot be,But that my Master is abus'd. Some Villaine,I, and singular in his Art, hath done you bothThis cursed iniurie   Imo. Some Roman Curtezan?  Pisa. No, on my life:Ile giue but notice you are dead, and send himSome bloody signe of it. For 'tis commandedI should do so: you shall be mist at Court,And that will well confirme it   Imo. Why good Fellow,What shall I do the while? Where bide? How liue?Or in my life, what comfort, when I amDead to my Husband?  Pis. If you'l backe to'th' Court   Imo. No Court, no Father, nor no more adoeWith that harsh, noble, simple nothing:That Clotten, whose Loue-suite hath bene to meAs fearefull as a Siege   Pis. If not at Court,Then not in Britaine must you bide   Imo. Where then?Hath Britaine all the Sunne that shines? Day? Night?Are they not but in Britaine? I'th' worlds VolumeOur Britaine seemes as of it, but not in't:In a great Poole, a Swannes-nest, prythee thinkeThere's liuers out of Britaine   Pis. I am most gladYou thinke of other place: Th' Ambassador,Lucius the Romane comes to Milford-HauenTo morrow. Now, if you could weare a mindeDarke, as your Fortune is, and but disguiseThat which t' appeare it selfe, must not yet be,But by selfe-danger, you should tread a coursePretty, and full of view: yea, happily, neereThe residence of Posthumus; so nie (at least)That though his Actions were not visible, yutReport should render him hourely to your eare,As truely as he mooues   Imo. Oh for such meanes,Though perill to my modestie, not death on'tI would aduenture   Pis. Well then, heere's the point:You must forget to be a Woman: changeCommand, into obedience. Feare, and Nicenesse(The Handmaides of all Women, or more truelyWoman it pretty selfe) into a waggish courage,Ready in gybes, quicke-answer'd, sawcie, andAs quarrellous as the Weazell: Nay, you mustForget that rarest Treasure of your Cheeke,Exposing it (but oh the harder heart,Alacke no remedy) to the greedy touchOf common-kissing Titan: and forgetYour laboursome and dainty Trimmes, whereinYou made great Iuno angry   Imo. Nay be breefe?I see into thy end, and am almostA man already   Pis. First, make your selfe but like one,Fore-thinking this. I haue already fit('Tis in my Cloake-bagge) Doublet, Hat, Hose, allThat answer to them: Would you in their seruing,(And with what imitation you can borrowFrom youth of such a season) 'fore Noble LuciusPresent your selfe, desire his seruice: tell himWherein you're happy; which will make him know,If that his head haue eare in Musicke, doubtlesseWith ioy he will imbrace you: for hee's Honourable,And doubling that, most holy. Your meanes abroad:You haue me rich, and I will neuer faileBeginning, nor supplyment   Imo. Thou art all the comfortThe Gods will diet me with. Prythee away,There's more to be consider'd: but wee'l euenAll that good time will giue vs. This attempt,I am Souldier too, and will abide it withA Princes Courage. Away, I prythee   Pis. Well Madam, we must take a short farewell,Least being mist, I be suspected ofYour carriage from the Court. My Noble Mistris,Heere is a boxe, I had it from the Queene,What's in't is precious: If you are sicke at Sea,Or Stomacke-qualm'd at Land, a Dramme of thisWill driue away distemper. To some shade,And fit you to your Manhood: may the GodsDirect you to the bestImo. Amen: I thanke thee.Exeunt.Scena Quinta

Enter Cymbeline, Queene, Cloten, Lucius, and Lords.

Cym. Thus farre, and so farewell   Luc. Thankes, Royall Sir:My Emperor hath wrote, I must from hence,And am right sorry, that I must report yeMy Masters Enemy   Cym. Our Subiects (Sir)Will not endure his yoake; and for our selfeTo shew lesse Soueraignty then they, must needsAppeare vn-Kinglike   Luc. So Sir: I desire of youA Conduct ouer Land, to Milford-Hauen.Madam, all ioy befall your Grace, and you   Cym. My Lords, you are appointed for that Office:The due of Honor, in no point omit:So farewell Noble LuciusLuc. Your hand, my Lord   Clot. Receiue it friendly: but from this time forthI weare it as your Enemy   Luc. Sir, the EuentIs yet to name the winner. Fare you well   Cym. Leaue not the worthy Lucius, good my LordsTill he haue crost the Seuern. Happines.Exit Lucius, &c  Qu. He goes hence frowning: but it honours vsThat we haue giuen him cause   Clot. 'Tis all the better,Your valiant Britaines haue their wishes in it   Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the EmperorHow it goes heere. It fits vs therefore ripelyOur Chariots, and our Horsemen be in readinesse:The Powres that he already hath in GalliaWill soone be drawne to head, from whence he mouesHis warre for Britaine   Qu. 'Tis not sleepy businesse,But must be look'd too speedily, and strongly   Cym. Our expectation that it would be thusHath made vs forward. But my gentle Queene,Where is our Daughter? She hath not appear'dBefore the Roman, nor to vs hath tender'dThe duty of the day. She looke vs likeA thing more made of malice, then of duty,We haue noted it. Call her before vs, forWe haue beene too slight in sufferance   Qu. Royall Sir,Since the exile of Posthumus, most retyr'dHath her life bin: the Cure whereof, my Lord,'Tis time must do. Beseech your Maiesty,Forbeare sharpe speeches to her. Shee's a LadySo tender of rebukes, that words are stroke;And strokes death to her.Enter a Messenger.  Cym. Where is she Sir? HowCan her contempt be answer'd?  Mes. Please you Sir,Her Chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answerThat will be giuen to'th' lowd of noise, we make   Qu. My Lord, when last I went to visit her,She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close,Whereto constrain'd by her infirmitie,She should that dutie leaue vnpaide to youWhich dayly she was bound to proffer: thisShe wish'd me to make knowne: but our great CourtMade me too blame in memory   Cym. Her doores lock'd?Not seene of late? Grant Heauens, that which IFeare, proue false.Enter.Qu. Sonne, I say, follow the King   Clot. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old SeruantI haue not seene these two dayes.Enter.  Qu. Go, looke after:Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus,He hath a Drugge of mine: I pray, his absenceProceed by swallowing that. For he beleeuesIt is a thing most precious. But for her,Where is she gone? Haply dispaire hath seiz'd her:Or wing'd with feruour of her loue, she's flowneTo her desir'd Posthumus: gone she is,To death, or to dishonor, and my endCan make good vse of either. Shee being downe,I haue the placing of the Brittish Crowne.Enter Cloten.How now, my Sonne?  Clot. 'Tis certaine she is fled:Go in and cheere the King, he rages, noneDare come about him   Qu. All the better: mayThis night fore-stall him of the comming day.Exit Qu.  Clo. I loue, and hate her: for she's Faire and Royall,And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisiteThen Lady, Ladies, Woman, from euery oneThe best she hath, and she of all compoundedOut-selles them all. I loue her therefore, butDisdaining me, and throwing Fauours onThe low Posthumus, slanders so her iudgement,That what's else rare, is choak'd: and in that pointI will conclude to hate her, nay indeede,To be reueng'd vpon her. For, when Fooles shall-Enter Pisanio.Who is heere? What, are you packing sirrah?Come hither: Ah you precious Pandar, Villaine,Where is thy Lady? In a word, or elseThou art straightway with the FiendsPis. Oh, good my Lord   Clo. Where is thy Lady? Or, by Iupiter,I will not aske againe. Close Villaine,Ile haue this Secret from thy heart, or ripThy heart to finde it. Is she with Posthumus?From whose so many waights of basenesse, cannotA dram of worth be drawne   Pis. Alas, nay Lord,How can she be with him? When was she miss'd?He is in Rome   Clot. Where is she Sir? Come neerer:No farther halting: satisfie me home,What is become of her?  Pis. Oh, my all-worthy Lord   Clo. All-worthy Villaine,Discouer where thy Mistris is, at once,At the next word: no more of worthy Lord:Speake, or thy silence on the instant, isThy condemnation, and thy death   Pis. Then Sir:This Paper is the historie of my knowledgeTouching her flight   Clo. Let's see't: I will pursue herEuen to Augustus Throne   Pis. Or this, or perish.She's farre enough, and what he learnes by this,May proue his trauell, not her dangerClo. Humh   Pis. Ile write to my Lord she's dead: Oh Imogen,Safe mayst thou wander, safe returne agen   Clot. Sirra, is this Letter true?  Pis. Sir, as I thinkeClot. It is Posthumus hand, I know't. Sirrah, if thou would'st not be a Villain, but do me true seruice: vndergo those Imployments wherin I should haue cause to vse thee with a serious industry, that is, what villainy soere I bid thee do to performe it, directly and truely, I would thinke thee an honest man: thou should'st neither want my meanes for thy releefe, nor my voyce for thy prefermentPis. Well, my good LordClot. Wilt thou serue mee? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stucke to the bare Fortune of that Begger Posthumus, thou canst not in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serue mee? Pis. Sir, I will   Clo. Giue mee thy hand, heere's my purse. Hast anyof thy late Masters Garments in thy possession?  Pisan. I haue (my Lord) at my Lodging, the sameSuite he wore, when he tooke leaue of my Ladie & Mistresse   Clo. The first seruice thou dost mee, fetch that Suitehither, let it be thy first seruice, go   Pis. I shall my Lord.Enter.Clo. Meet thee at Milford-Hauen: (I forgot to aske him one thing, Ile remember't anon:) euen there, thou villaine Posthumus will I kill thee. I would these Garments were come. She saide vpon a time (the bitternesse of it, I now belch from my heart) that shee held the very Garment of Posthumus, in more respect, then my Noble and naturall person; together with the adornement of my Qualities. With that Suite vpon my backe wil I rauish her: first kill him, and in her eyes; there shall she see my valour, which wil then be a torment to hir contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insulment ended on his dead bodie, and when my Lust hath dined (which, as I say, to vex her, I will execute in the Cloathes that she so prais'd:) to the Court Ile knock her backe, foot her home againe. She hath despis'd mee reioycingly, and Ile bee merry in my Reuenge. Enter Pisanio.Be those the Garments?  Pis. I, my Noble Lord   Clo. How long is't since she went to Milford-Hauen?  Pis. She can scarse be there yetClo. Bring this Apparrell to my Chamber, that is the second thing that I haue commanded thee. The third is, that thou wilt be a voluntarie Mute to my designe. Be but dutious, and true preferment shall tender it selfe to thee. My Reuenge is now at Milford, would I had wings to follow it. Come, and be true.Exit  Pis. Thou bid'st me to my losse: for true to thee,Were to proue false, which I will neuer beeTo him that is most true. To Milford go,And finde not her, whom thou pursuest. Flow, flowYou Heauenly blessings on her: This Fooles speedeBe crost with slownesse; Labour be his meede.ExitScena Sexta

Enter Imogen alone.

  Imo. I see a mans life is a tedious one,I haue tyr'd my selfe: and for two nights togetherHaue made the ground my bed. I should be sicke,But that my resolution helpes me: Milford,When from the Mountaine top, Pisanio shew'd thee,Thou was't within a kenne. Oh Ioue, I thinkeFoundations flye the wretched: such I meane,Where they should be releeu'd. Two Beggers told me,I could not misse my way. Will poore Folkes lyeThat haue Afflictions on them, knowing 'tisA punishment, or Triall? Yes; no wonder,When Rich-ones scarse tell true. To lapse in FulnesseIs sorer, then to lye for Neede: and FalshoodIs worse in Kings, then Beggers. My deere Lord,Thou art one o'th' false Ones: Now I thinke on thee,My hunger's gone; but euen before, I wasAt point to sinke, for Food. But what is this?Heere is a path too't: 'tis some sauage hold:I were best not call; I dare not call: yet FamineEre cleane it o're-throw Nature, makes it valiant.Plentie, and Peace breeds Cowards: Hardnesse euerOf Hardinesse is Mother. Hoa? who's heere?If any thing that's ciuill, speake: if sauage,Take, or lend. Hoa? No answer? Then Ile enter.Best draw my Sword; and if mine EnemyBut feare the Sword like me, hee'l scarsely looke on't.Such a Foe, good Heauens.Enter.Scena Septima

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus

   Bel. You Polidore haue prou'd best Woodman, andAre Master of the Feast: Cadwall, and IWill play the Cooke, and Seruant, 'tis our match:The sweat of industry would dry, and dyeBut for the end it workes too. Come, our stomackesWill make what's homely, sauoury: WearinesseCan snore vpon the Flint, when restie SlothFindes the Downe-pillow hard. Now peace be heere,Poore house, that keep'st thy selfeGui. I am throughly wearyArui. I am weake with toyle, yet strong in appetite   Gui. There is cold meat i'th' Caue, we'l brouz on thatWhil'st what we haue kill'd, be Cook'd   Bel. Stay, come not in:But that it eates our victualles, I should thinkeHeere were a Faiery   Gui. What's the matter, Sir?  Bel. By Iupiter an Angell: or if notAn earthly Paragon. Behold DiuinenesseNo elder then a Boy.Enter Imogen.  Imo. Good masters harme me not:Before I enter'd heere, I call'd, and thoughtTo haue begg'd, or bought, what I haue took: good trothI haue stolne nought, nor would not, though I had foundGold strew'd i'th' Floore. Heere's money for my Meate,I would haue left it on the Boord, so sooneAs I had made my Meale; and partedWith Pray'rs for the ProuiderGui. Money? Youth   Aru. All Gold and Siluer rather turne to durt,As 'tis no better reckon'd, but of thoseWho worship durty Gods   Imo. I see you're angry:Know, if you kill me for my fault, I shouldHaue dyed, had I not made it   Bel. Whether bound?  Imo. To Milford-Hauen   Bel. What's your name?  Imo. Fidele Sir: I haue a Kinsman, whoIs bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford,To whom being going, almost spent with hunger,I am falne in this offence   Bel. Prythee (faire youth)Thinke vs no Churles: nor measure our good mindesBy this rude place we liue in. Well encounter'd,'Tis almost night, you shall haue better cheereEre you depart; and thankes to stay, and eate it:Boyes, bid him welcome   Gui. Were you a woman, youth,I should woo hard, but be your Groome in honesty:I bid for you, as I do buy   Arui. Ile make't my ComfortHe is a man, Ile loue him as my Brother:And such a welcome as I'ld giue to him(After long absence) such is yours. Most welcome:Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst Friends   Imo. 'Mongst Friends?If Brothers: would it had bin so, that theyHad bin my Fathers Sonnes, then had my prizeBin lesse, and so more equall ballastingTo thee PosthumusBel. He wrings at some distresseGui. Would I could free't   Arui. Or I, what ere it be,What paine it cost, what danger: Gods!  Bel. Hearke Boyes   Imo. Great menThat had a Court no bigger then this Caue,That did attend themselues, and had the vertueWhich their owne Conscience seal'd them: laying byThat nothing-guift of differing MultitudesCould not out-peere these twaine. Pardon me Gods,I'ld change my sexe to be Companion with them,Since Leonatus false   Bel. It shall be so:Boyes wee'l go dresse our Hunt. Faire youth come in;Discourse is heauy, fasting: when we haue supp'dWee'l mannerly demand thee of thy Story,So farre as thou wilt speake itGui. Pray draw neere   Arui. The Night to'th' Owle,And Morne to th' Larke lesse welcomeImo. Thankes SirArui. I pray draw neere.Exeunt.Scena Octaua

Enter two Roman Senators, and Tribunes.